The Fortunate Isles: Life and Travel in Majorca, Minorca and Iviza
by Mary Stuart Boyd · English · Gutenberg #39199 · 607,580 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Fortunate Isles: Life and Travel in Majorca, Minorca and Iviza
Author: Mary Stuart Boyd
Illustrator: A. S. Boyd
Release date: March 19, 2012 [eBook #39199]
Language: English
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THE FORTUNATE ISLES
* * * * *
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
_Travel_
OUR STOLEN SUMMER
A VERSAILLES CHRISTMAS-TIDE
_Novels_
THE GLEN
THE FIRST STONE
WITH CLIPPED WINGS
THE MAN IN THE WOOD
BACKWATERS
HER BESETTING VIRTUE
THE MISSES MAKE-BELIEVE
* * * * *
[Illustration: Calle Del Calvario, Pollensa]
THE FORTUNATE ISLES
Life and Travel in Majorca, Minorca and Iviza
by
MARY STUART BOYD
With Eight Illustrations in Colour and Fifty-Two Pen Drawings
by A. S. Boyd, R.S.W.
Methuen & Co. Ltd.
36 Essex Street W.C.
London
First Published in 1911
FOREWARNING
"I hear you think of spending the winter in the Balearic Islands?"
said the only Briton we met who had been there. "Well, I warn you,
you won't enjoy them. They are quite out of the world. There are no
tourists. Not a soul understands a word of English, and there's
nothing whatever to do. If you take my advice you won't go."
So we went. And what follows is a faithful account of what befell us
in these fortunate isles.
M. S. B.
CONTENTS
PAGE
I. SOUTHWARDS 1
II. OUR CASA IN SPAIN 14
III. PALMA, THE PEARL OF THE MEDITERRANEAN 26
IV. HOUSEKEEPING 39
V. TWO HISTORIC BUILDINGS 51
VI. THE FAIR AT INCA 60
VII. VALLDEMOSA 66
VIII. MIRAMAR 79
IX. SOLLER 94
X. ANDRAITX 107
XI. UP AMONG THE WINDMILLS 117
XII. NAVIDAD 128
XIII. THE FEAST OF THE CONQUISTADOR 143
XIV. POLLENSA 152
XV. THE PORT OF ALCUDIA 168
XVI. MINORCA 179
XVII. STORM-BOUND 193
XVIII. ALARO 203
XIX. THE DRAGON CAVES AND MANACOR 215
XX. ARTA AND ITS CAVES 225
XXI. AMONG THE HILLS 242
XXII. DEYA, AND A PALMA PROCESSION 252
XXIII. OF FAIR WOMEN AND FINE WEATHER 264
XXIV. OF ODDS AND ENDS 274
XXV. IVIZA--A FORGOTTEN ISLE 289
XXVI. AN IVIZAN SABBATH 301
XXVII. AT SAN ANTONIO 311
XXVIII. WELCOME AND FAREWELL 320
XXIX. LAST DAYS 328
INDEX 335
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
IN COLOUR
CALLE DEL CALVARIO, POLLENSA _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
PALMA DE MALLORCA, FROM THE TERRENO 26
VALLDEMOSA 70
SOLLER 94
AFTER THE FEAST OF THE CONQUISTADOR, PALMA CATHEDRAL 143
THE ROMAN GATEWAY, ALCUDIA 168
MAHON, MINORCA 193
SUNDAY MORNING AT IVIZA 289
PEN DRAWINGS
PAGE
THE CATHEDRAL AND THE LONJA, PALMA 1
A PALMA _PATIO_ 9
THE SERENO 13
THE CASA TRANQUILA 14
THE GATE OF SANTA CATALINA, PALMA 19
OUR SUBURBAN STREET 24
CALLE DE LA ALMUDAINA, PALMA 29
A SUPPER PARTY 37
THE SATURDAY MARKET, PALMA 39
A CONSUMOS STATION 47
THE CASTLE OF BELLVER 51
PALMA, FROM THE WOODS OF BELLVER 57
SECOND CLASS 60
A CORNER OF THE FAIR AT INCA 64
WHERE THE HILLS MEET THE PLAIN, ESGLAYETA 66
CARABINEROS IN THE KITCHEN 77
LA TRINIDAD, MIRAMAR 79
A TIGHT FIT 91
THE MANDOLINE PLAYER 101
AT FORNALUTX 104
SON MAS, ANDRAITX 107
IN THE PORT OF ANDRAITX 117
ABOVE ANDRAITX 123
CHRISTMAS TURKEYS 128
A SCENE OF SLAUGHTER 135
THE COFFIN OF JAIME II IN PALMA CATHEDRAL 150
MARKET DAY AT POLLENSA 152
THE MAIN STREET OF POLLENSA 161
A _NORIA_ NEAR ALCUDIA 175
CIUDADELA SEEN FROM THE SEA 179
CALLE SAN ROQUE, MAHON 187
_COMERCIANTES_ IN THE FONDA AT MAHON 201
AN INTERIOR IN ALARO 203
ALARO 210
IN THE DRAGON'S CAVE 215
MANACOR 221
ARTA 225
TOWARDS THE PARISH CHURCH, ARTA 229
ENTERING THE CAVES OF ARTA 234
PALM-SUNDAY AT SOLLER 242
DEYA 253
PROCESSIONISTS OF HOLY THURSDAY 262
DURING THE CARNIVAL AT PALMA 264
THE WOOER 269
THE NATIONAL SPORT 274
CALLE DE LA PORTELLA, PALMA 279
THANKSGIVING 296
A TRIO AND A QUARTETTE 301
THE GATES OF THE _FEIXAS_, IVIZA 309
THE CHURCH OF SAN ANTONIO, IVIZA 311
THE CHURCH OF JESUS, IVIZA 320
MOORISH TOWER AT THE PORT OF ALCUDIA 328
[Illustration: The Cathedral and the Lonja, Palma]
THE FORTUNATE ISLES
I
SOUTHWARDS
We had left London on a tempestuous mid-October Saturday morning,
and Sunday night found us walking on the Rambla at Barcelona, a
purple velvet star-spangled sky overhead, and crowds of gay
promenaders all about us.
When the Boy and I had planned our journey to the Balearic Isles
(the Man never plans), our imaginings always began as we embarked at
Barcelona harbour on the Majorcan steamer that was to carry us to
the islands of our desire. So when we had strolled to where the
Rambla ends amid the palm-trees of the port, it seemed like the
materializing of a dream to see the steamer _Balear_ lying there,
right under the great column of Columbus, with her bow pointing
seawards, as though waiting for us to step on board.
When at sunset next day the hotel omnibus deposited us at the port,
the _Balear_ appeared to be the centre of attraction. It still
lacked half an hour of sailing time, yet her decks, which were
ablaze with electric light, were covered with people. Ingress was a
matter of so much difficulty that our inexperience of the ways of
Spanish ports anticipated an uncomfortably crowded passage.
There was scarcely room on board to move, yet up the species of
hen-ladder that acted as gangway people were still streaming--ladies
in mantillas, ladies with fans, ladies with babies, and men of every
age, the men all smoking cigarettes.
Fortunately a recognized etiquette made those whose visits to the
ship were of a purely complimentary nature confine themselves to the
deck. When we descended to inspect our sleeping accommodation it was
to find an individual cabin reserved for each of us; and to learn
that, in spite of the mob on board, there were but four other saloon
passengers. These, as we afterwards discovered, were a French
honeymoon couple and a young Majorcan lady who was accompanied by
her _duena_.
Rain had been predicted, and was eagerly looked for, as none had
fallen for many weeks. Yet it was a perfect evening. There was
hardly a ripple on the water, and the air was soft and balmy. Behind
the brilliant city with its myriads of lights rose the dark
Catalonian mountains. Clustered near us in the harbour the crews of
the fishing boats made wonderfully picturesque groups as they supped
by the light of hanging lamps. And over all, high above the tall
palms of the Paseo de Colon, the statue of Columbus pointed ever
westwards.
Looking at the sparkling scene, it was difficult to credit that
Barcelona, with its surface aspect of light-hearted gaiety, was
under martial law, even though we had seen that alert-eyed armed
soldiers guarded every street and alley, and knew that but a day or
two earlier bombs had exploded with deadly effect where the crowds
were now promenading. It was hard, too, to believe that at that
moment the interest of all Europe was centred upon that sombre
fortress to the south-west of the town, within whose walls, only
five days earlier, Ferrer had, rightly or wrongly, met the death of
a traitor.
The warning siren sounded. The visitors reluctantly scuttled down
the ridiculous hen-ladder. The moorings were cast away, the screw
revolved, and we were off--bound for the Fortunate Isles.
Out of many wondrous nights passed on strange waters I remember none
more beautiful. We were almost alone on deck. So far as solitude
went the _Balear_ might have been chartered for our exclusive use.
The second-cabin passengers had all disappeared forward. The French
bride and bridegroom had found a secluded nook in which to coo; and
the vigilant _duena_ had led her charge into retirement.
We three sat late into the night watching the lights of the
beautiful city of unrest fade away into the distance, while over the
sinister fortress of Montjuich the golden sickle of the new moon
hung like a note of interrogation.
The Spanish coast had vanished. The ship's bow was pointing towards
Africa, and wild-fire was flashing about the horizon when at last we
descended to our cabins. The lightning was still flashing, but it
was far in our wake, when we awoke about four in the morning to find
the _Balear_ sailing along on an even keel, close by a mountainous
coast whose highest promontory was crowned by a lighthouse.
Having dressed and refreshed ourselves with biscuits, and chocolate
made over a spirit-lamp, we went on deck while it was yet dark, and
watched the land gradually become more and more distinct with the
broadening dawn. The Boy, who had early recognised something British
in the build of our steamer, made the interesting discovery from the
unobliterated lettering on her bell that, though now known as the
_Balear_, the vessel had begun her career as the _Princess Maud_,
one of a line of steamers coasting between Glasgow and Liverpool.
As the steamer skirted the picturesque coast we tried, not very
effectively, it must be admitted, to pick out the bays and
headlands history connects with Jaime, the valorous young King of
Aragon, who, accompanied by a great fleet, set sail from Barcelona
one September day early in the thirteenth century, determined to
wrest Majorca from the tyranny of the Moors, who for hundreds of
years had dominated it. But when we had decided that it must
have been round _that_ point that his ships, with all lights
extinguished, had crept at midnight to anchor in _this_ bay, the
appearance of yet another point and another bay made us waver.
Still, there could be no mistaking Porto Pi, with its beacon tower
on the point where the Moors, warned of the approach of the enemy,
gathered in force to resist his landing.
The sun was illumining the wooded slopes about the ancient castle of
Bellver, and shining radiantly upon Palma, lighting up the spires of
the noble Cathedral and the encompassing city walls, and shining
upon the mountains beyond, as about half-past six we entered the
harbour, to find the wharf already busy with people.
We had left grey gloom in London and in Paris. Here all was vivid
and sparkling. The air was exhilarating, the port, with its
nondescript craft, was a feast of colour. Voices speaking the island
tongue sounded strangely in our unaccustomed ears. Our first
impression of Palma was one of brightness: an impression conveyed
partly by the warm amber and golden tints of the stone of which the
charming city is built.
On the previous night we had thought the _Balear_ half empty; but
with the morning many unguessed passengers made their appearance
forward. The _guardia civil_, who was travelling with his little
boy, producing a pocket-handkerchief, dipped it in a bucket of water
and scrubbed his son's face till it shone, the child keeping up an
excited chatter the while.
The honeymoon couple were early on deck looking out for the Grand
Hotel omnibus. But we were nearly alongside the wharf before the
young Majorcan lady, closely shadowed by her _duena_, left her
cabin.
After the manner of Spanish aristocrats when travelling, she was
dressed in black, and carried a fan that seemed to go oddly with her
smart hat. She had a beautiful figure, and the graceful carriage of
her race. But an expression of discontent, as though she were
already weary looking for something that might have been expected to
happen but did not, lent an unbecoming droop to her well cut lips.
Her companion was a shrivelled little woman, whose gums were
toothless and whose cheeks bore the pallor of enforced seclusion,
but whose alert expression betokened generations of watchful
patience. He would be an ingenious as well as an ardent lover whose
attentions could escape the glint of those quiet eyes. A black
mantilla covered her scant hair, a long semi-transparent shawl
draped her narrow shoulders. In addition to her fan she held two
parcels, one wrapped in green, the other in orange tissue-paper--a
flimsy covering, surely, for a sea-passage.
We put ourselves in the care of the first porter who mounted the
gangway--a handsome brigand with a slouch hat, curled moustaches,
and yellow boots. Gathering up a mountain of light luggage in either
hand, he tripped airily on shore, we meekly following.
A Spanish friend in London had recommended the _Fonda de Mallorca_
(locally known as "Barnils'") as the best specimen of a typical
Majorcan hotel, and there we had decided to stay until our plans for
the next few months were matured.
As we left the harbour the hotel omnibus drew up in front of the
Customs Office, and for the third and last time on the journey the
solemn farce of the examination of our luggage was gone through.
This time it was altogether perfunctory. Not an article was opened.
The trunks, which followed on a cart, must have been treated with
like trustful generosity, for their keys never left our possession.
As our baggage included a double supply of artist's materials
requisite for a six months' stay, it turned the scale at three
hundred pounds. Between Charing Cross and Paris the overweight was
charged 15s. 6d. From Paris to Barcelona we paid 35 francs. From
there to Palma it travelled free. But though we saw fellow-travellers
in variant stages of exasperation over vexatious claims, we paid no
duty anywhere. Even the China tea that, unknown to my men-folk, I had
smuggled, travelled unsuspected. And as tea in Majorca is a ransom,
and Indian at the best, I had, while my small store lasted, an
unfailing sense of satisfaction in my contraband possession.
The Hotel Barnils gave us a cordial welcome. The grateful fragrance
of hot coffee was in the air as we were taken upstairs and delivered
into the care of Pedro, the chamber-man, who was smoking a cigarette
as he cleaned the tiled corridors with a basin of damp sawdust and
an ineffectual-looking broom.
Our suite of rooms on the second floor consisted of a tiny _salon_,
from which on either side opened a bedroom. The smaller had a window
to the Calle del Conquistador, the larger overlooked the inner
courtyard with its potted palms and ginger-plants. All three rooms
were papered alike in a pattern of large black and brown leaves on a
yellow ground. The effect was decidedly bizarre. To those of a
melancholy temperament it would assuredly have proved trying, even
though there was a certain relief in the collection of French
coloured lithographs that further adorned the walls.
Our sitting-room, which, like the bedrooms, was paved with tiles,
had a tall window that opened to the floor and was guarded by an
iron railing. It had two red-covered easy-chairs, four fawn brocade
small chairs, and a round table with a yellow and drab tablecloth.
In an amazingly brief space we were seated round that table drinking
coffee out of tall glasses, and making acquaintance with the
_enciamada_, a local breakfast dainty which is neither pastry,
bread, nor bun, yet appears to enjoy something of the good qualities
of all three. In form it somewhat resembles the fossil known to our
nursery days as an ammonite. To picture a nicely baked and browned
ammonite that has been well dusted with icing-sugar is to see an
_enciamada_.
The little breakfast over, we went out to explore the city. Up the
street of the Conquistador people were hurrying: men bearing on
their heads flat baskets filled with pink or silver fish that were
still dripping from the Mediterranean, and women carrying empty
baskets. Following the stream, we found ourselves in the market,
which is surrounded by tall, many-storied buildings.
It was an animated scene. Everybody was busy--all the people who were
not buying were selling. And round about were commodities that were
strange to us. The fish-stalls, which were clustered in a corner by
themselves, displayed odd fish, many of them repulsive-looking, and
all, in our eyes, undersized. The meat stalls revealed joints of
puzzling cut, and were garlanded with gamboge and vermilion sausages,
as though the Majorcans' love of bright colours manifested itself
even in the food they ate.
The more attractive aspect of the fruit and vegetables drew us up
the alleys where the salesfolk sat placidly surrounded by huge
gourds, radishes eighteen inches long, strange and unappetizing
fungi. They had a varied assortment of goods, but the vegetable that
appeared to dominate the market was the sweet pepper, or _pimiento_;
everywhere it lay in heaps whose colour shaded from a vivid green to
glowing scarlets and orange.
One or two ladies in mantillas were marketing, attended by maids
whose hair, dressed in a single pleat, showed beneath the
_rebozillo_ that is the national head-covering of the country-women.
One piece of buying, and one only, did I venture on. The Man's
favourite fruit is the green fig, a commodity that in London costs
on an average eighteenpence a dozen. Seeing a woman with a hamper of
choice fresh figs, I proceeded to try how Majorcan prices compared
with those of Britain. Taking warning by the experience of a friend
who, having asked for half-a-crown's worth of grapes in a foreign
market, found himself confronted with the impossibility of carrying
away his purchase, I discreetly held out the local equivalent of a
penny and pointed to the figs.
The vendor, seeing that I had no basket, held a brief colloquy with
a neighbouring salesman, which resulted in the production of a piece
of crumpled newspaper. Signing to me to open my hands, she spread it
over them and began counting the figs into it, carefully selecting
the finest specimens from her stock. Having heard that food was
cheap in these fortunate isles, I confidently expected that my penny
might purchase four green figs: but instead of stopping at a
reasonable number, the woman went on piling them up until I felt
inclined to say "Hold, enough!" When she desisted, the paper held a
dozen juicy purple figs, and half a dozen of the golden green ones
that are considered the more delicate in flavour.
A Spanish proverb declares that to reach perfection a ripe fig must
have three qualifications: "A neck for the hangman, a robe for the
beggar, a tear for the penitent." These had all the required
attributes: the slender neck, the rent in the skin, the oozing drop
of juice. Better figs, we imagined, were never eaten than the
experimental pennyworth we bought that October day in Palma market.
The mind easily adjusts itself to existing conditions. A few minutes
later it scarcely surprised us to see an old woman buy ten fine
tomatoes for a halfpenny--or to hear her demand an eleventh as just
value for her coin.
Leaving the market square, we wandered about the narrow streets,
which, with their tall old houses and quaint _patios_--the spacious
central courtyards--are full of picturesque scenes. Palma is densely
populated, and the moving crowds gave us the impression of a people
good-looking and well dressed as well as healthy and happy. Few of
the ladies we met wore hats, and to me it appeared odd to see a lady
in a well-cut tailor suit wearing a mantilla as, accompanied by
her maid, she did her shopping.
[Illustration: A Palma _Patio_]
Many of the native women had their hair in a long pigtail, and wore
either the _rebozillo_--a neat white muslin headdress, in form like
a diminutive hood with a collarette attached--or a coloured silk
handkerchief, or both. A small fringed shawl usually covered their
shoulders. But it was in the matter of footgear that the Majorcan
fancy appeared to run riot. Yellow boots, green boots, cream-hued
boots, elastic-sided orange boots were displayed on the feet of
otherwise sedately-garbed people of both sexes; and the children
wore slippers of lively shades embroidered with gay flowers.
When a sudden shower, descending with tropical force made us seek
shelter in a doorway whence we watched the passers-by, we had the
opportunity of noting that, though all marketing dames wore smart
boots, many of them had dispensed with stockings.
A sharp distinction seemed to be drawn in the dress of the classes.
As we passed the church of San Miguel, troops of ladies who had been
attending morning service were leaving it. With almost the
uniformity of a livery, they wore black gowns of brocaded satin.
Black mantillas covered their beautifully-dressed hair, and in
addition to their rosaries, each carried a fan.
Our temporary shelter chanced to be close to the gate of Santa
Margarita, and when the rain cloud had passed over, we went near to
read the inscription graven in Spanish on the stone on one side of
the gateway:--
_By this gate entered into the city on the 31st day of
December, 1229, the hosts of King Don Jaime I. of
Aragon, Conquistador of Majorca. As a remembrance of
that memorable occasion, on which Majorca was restored
to the faith and civilization of Christianity, this
gate, called "Bab-al-Kofol" in the time of the Islamite
dominion, since then "Esuchidor" and "Pintador," and in
modern times "Santa Margarita," was declared a national
monument on the 28th of July, 1908, and restored at the
expense of the State._
The records of the more ancient races who inhabited the island seem
to have almost vanished. The Gymnesias, known as the people whose
gracious climate rendered the wearing of clothes a superfluity; the
Phoenicians, the Romans, even the Balearic slingers, are well-nigh
forgotten, while memorials of the valiant young King of Aragon meet
one at every turn.
Hunger sent us back to the hotel to have our first experience of the
Majorcan cookery for which it is justly noted.
The cheerful dining-room opened into the square courtyard, whose
walls were striped in broad lines of blue and white like the bandbox
of a French milliner. On each of the six tables was a large decanter
of red wine.
The first dish set before us required a certain amount of courage to
tackle. It was a mound of amber-tinted rice in which was visible a
weird conglomeration of fish, flesh, fowl, and chopped vegetables.
The queer part was the preponderance of empty seashells, for while
their contents had doubtless become incorporated with the other
ingredients, the empty shells remained insistent and uninviting.
But hunger had made us reckless, and on venturing, we found the _arroz
con mariscos_ worthy the national esteem in which it is held. Highly
seasoned meat of some sort followed. Then came delicately-cooked
little fish; then something that defied us to discover whether it
belonged to the animal or the vegetable kingdom. There were no sweets,
but the dessert was abundant and delicious. Apricots, curiously
exotic-looking apples that were streaked with crimson on a pink
ground, great clusters of little yellow grapes that seemed as though
the sunshine were imprisoned in their skins, and the tempting little
baked almonds that are a speciality of Barnils'.
The rain, that in a few minutes had turned the narrow streets into
rivers, had ceased as suddenly as it began. The sky was again a deep
glowing blue, and the pure soft air was a pleasure to breathe, when
ascending a stair we found ourselves on the flat roof of the hotel,
which commanded an extensive view over the city. About us were many
flat Moorish roofs, some used as gardens, others bearing great cages
full of pigeons. To the south was the port with its gay display of
shipping and the sparkling waters of the Mediterranean. To north,
east, and west, the towers and domes and city walls encircled us.
Beyond were the fruitful plains, and farther still the blue
mountains.
Around us rose the softened murmur of the town, the chiming of
bells, the whisper of the sea, the sound of voices speaking in
strange tongues. All was charming, novel, and wholly delightful.
Chopin's description of Palma, written seventy years ago when, with
George Sand, he spent a winter in Majorca, needs no correction
to-day:--
"Here I am at Palma," he wrote to his friend Fontana, "in the midst
of palms, and cedars and cactuses, and olives and oranges, and
lemons and figs and pomegranates.... The sky is like a turquoise,
the sea is like lazuli, and the mountains are like emeralds. The air
is pure like the air of Paradise. All day long the sun shines and it
is warm, and everybody walks about in summer clothes. At night one
hears guitars and serenades. Vines are festooned on immense
balconies. Moorish walls rise all about us. The town, like
everything here, looks towards Africa. In a word, it is an enchanted
life that we are living."
Soon after midnight a deep sonorous cry awoke me from the sleep of
the pleasantly fatigued:--
_Alabado sea Dios....
Las doce y media....
Sereno...._
it rang out in the stillness.
Jumping out of bed, I reached the open window in time to see the
passing of a black figure wrapped in a great cloak, the rays from
the lantern he carried throwing a wavering circle of light on the
pavement beside him. It was the _sereno_, the guardian of the
sleeping city.
Pausing before one of the closed doors, he smote on it three times
with his staff. Then he turned, and passed out of sight, his long
wailing cry again rising into the night.
[Illustration: The Sereno]
[Illustration: The Casa Tranquila]
II
OUR CASA IN SPAIN
Palma was gay with bunting in honour of the birthday of the young
Queen of Spain, when on the afternoon of our second day in Majorca
we set out to deliver a letter of introduction that was fated to
have an important influence on our future arrangements.
Much might be, and probably much has been written on the uses and
abuses of letters of introduction. Sometimes the given letter proves
a boon both to him who carries and him who receives it. Was not one
of our best friends made known to us through the medium of a
perfunctory note from a man we had not seen for many years, and whom
the presenter of the note had never even met? When we left London we
bore a letter of introduction to an Englishman resident in
Barcelona, and he in turn gave us a letter to an American friend of
his at Palma, who was Consul for certain of the Southern Republics.
The home of the Consul was at Son Espanolet, an attractive little
residential suburb about a mile beyond the city walls. The busy
district of Santa Catalina lies between it and the sea. Undulating
groves of almond and olive separate it from the hills.
Taking the mule-drawn tram-car that plies between Palma and Porto
Pi, we alighted at Santa Catalina; and, after making various
inquiries, found ourselves ringing the gate-bell of the house, over
whose tower fluttered the gay banner of the Consulate.
Had the Consul and his wife guessed that these three British
invaders were going to trespass on their endurance for a period of
six months, I doubt if they would have received us with such
courteous geniality. As it was, their reception was so cordial that
within half an hour of our meeting I felt emboldened to reveal what
had been my secret desire--that we might rent a furnished house near
Palma for the winter. Not a fine house--merely a roof under which we
could stow our belongings, a centre from which our wanderings about
the islands might radiate.
Could they advise us? Did they think such an idea was feasible?
The Consul shook his head.
"Not near Palma," he said. "At Porto Pi or the Terreno you might
chance on one. But these are summer seaside places. Most of the
houses there are shut up now. You'd find it dull and inconvenient in
winter."
"This district seems delightful, and near town. Would there be a
chance of our getting a house here?"
"Unfurnished, yes--furnished, no. But why not take a vacant house
and hire what you need? There's only three of you. You don't want
much."
"Say, Luis!" said pretty Mrs. Consul, "what about the house the
Major left last week? That's empty now. Would that suit?"
For a moment the Consul looked meditative.
"I'm thinking," he said. "You're right. That's the very place. Nice
little house. Got a garden. Stable too. And a fine view from the
veranda."
"Is the house near? Could we see it?" we asked.
"It's close by, in the Calle de Mas. We'll see about it, right away,
now."
The Consul, happily for us, was a man of action. Ringing the bell,
he summoned Isidoro, his man-servant, who summoned Margarita, his
cook. And Margarita, having received instructions to search the wide
world till she found the caretaker of the empty house and to bring
her hither, departed at once on her quest. In an incredibly brief
space of time she returned in company with a little old woman and
two large door-keys.
Following her guidance we walked in procession round the corners of
several secluded roads, whose yellow stone walls, flat roofs, and
almost tropical foliage looked Oriental under the evening glow.
Viewed from the street, the house we sought, with its green shutters
and tiled roof, resembled a hundred others. But when the big keys
had performed their task, and we had passed through the two centre
rooms and found ourselves on a wide stone-pillared veranda looking
across the orange and lemon trees of the gardens to where the
Mediterranean lay azure under the setting sun, our minds held no
further hesitation. We knew that it was our own house.
Merely to assure ourselves that the house had no equal, we
investigated the claims of two other vacant dwellings before
returning to the Consulate. One had a basement in which a native
family lived--apparently wholly upon garlic. The other attempted to
make up in stucco images what it lacked in view.
It was too late that night to take any steps towards securing the
house. The Consul, himself a versatile linguist, knowing that our
meagre Spanish could hardly be expected to prove equal to the
subtleties of house-hiring, arranged to accompany the Man and the
Boy next day to interview the owner, and if possible to see the
negotiations completed.
I think we were all secretly uneasy until we learned that, on the
personal recommendation of the Consul, the landlord had
unhesitatingly accepted us as tenants, and that he had agreed to
have the garden put in order, to mend any broken panes of glass in
the doors or windows, to see that the well was clean, and to permit
us to enter upon our tenancy at once.
And then, the house being secured, the important subject of
furniture had to be considered. Knowing that with hired goods we
would feel conscious of certain restrictions, we had resolved to buy
what was absolutely necessary. And the question was--how much or how
little furniture would three unexacting people require during six
months of a picnicking existence in a gracious climate?
Already there were several indispensable articles in the house--two
tables, one large enough to serve as dining-table, a bench, and a
tall glass-doored corner cupboard. Beds would be needed, washstands,
two more tables of the plainest description, half-a-dozen
rush-seated chairs of local make for utility, lounge chairs for our
laziness, and looking-glasses for our vanity.
Still under the Consul's skilled guidance we visited an
upholsterer's, a dark and narrow shop where the closely packed stock
took up so much room that there was hardly space for a single
customer. The shopkeeper, a smiling little round man in a pink
shirt, and his daughter, a smiling big round girl in a white frock,
entered heartily into the spirit of our requirements; and with the
Consul's aid in the reduction of prices, we speedily acquired what
was necessary.
We had landed on Majorca on Tuesday morning. Before dusk fell on
Thursday our house was not only taken, but the furniture purchased.
Electric light is a cheap luxury in Palma, and for our comfort in
the winter nights we were having it put in. Knowing that the
installation of the light, the scrubbing out of the house, and the
raking up of the garden would occupy a day or two, we decided to
remain at Barnils' until Monday, on which morning we would journey
out to Son Espanolet and take possession. Meanwhile we roamed about
Palma with our eyes open to the necessities of our bare
establishment, picking up a broom here, a coffee-strainer there,
some wooden cooking-spoons yonder.
Matters moved with surprising briskness. Monday morning found the
electric light fixed, the tiled floors well scrubbed, the scant
provision of furniture in the rooms, and the garden dug. So, leaving
our heavier luggage to follow by cart, we packed ourselves and our
smaller baggage into a _carruaje_, and set out for our new home. The
progress thither was circuitous, as first we had to journey up and
down the narrow streets of the town collecting the smaller purchases
we had made.
First we called at a grocer's to pick up the supply of provisions
that were to form the nucleus of our housekeeping. Then we meant to
drive to the china shop where our store of crockery awaited us.
Unfortunately the china shop, being situated on a street so steep
that it ascended in a series of wide steps, was unapproachable by
our two-horse conveyance. Leaving the carriage at the foot of the
steps the Man and the Boy mounted to the shop, and by and by
reappeared accompanied by a man and a maiden, all four laden with
dishes.
Space in the conveyance had been limited before. Now, surrounded by
earthenware cooking-pots, and basins, and jugs, and plates, we were
jolted over the primitively paved streets, and out beyond the gate
of Santa Catalina to the little house in Son Espanolet.
Perhaps our sense of possession threw a glamour over the dwelling,
but already it seemed to wear a look of home. The scanty furniture
was in place, a few minutes sufficed to put the groceries on the
shelves, the dishes in the glass cupboard, the earthenware
cooking-pots and pans on the kitchen shelf. Then, when the table was
spread with our new tea-cups, and decorated with roses and scented
verbena from the garden, set in a jug, and the kettle was a-boil
over our trusty spirit-lamp, we sat down, in great contentment, to
enjoy the first meal in our _casa_ in Spain.
The lines even of a foreign householder in Majorca are cast in
pleasant places. From our point of view the Majorcan landlord has
the worse of the bargain, his tenant the better.
[Illustration: The Gate of Santa Catalina, Palma]
We took our little house for three months, paying in advance the
very moderate rent--it was twenty pesetas, about fifteen shillings,
a month--and agreeing to give, or take, a month's warning. This
done, our obligations appeared to cease. There were no taxes, at
least none that the tenant was expected to pay. There was no water
rate. The well in the garden afforded a supply of pure and wholesome
rain-water. If windows were broken the landlord sent, or promised to
send, a glazier to put in new panes. In the rare event of a chimney
requiring cleaning, the accommodating landlord was expected to
employ a mason to do the work. And with the arrival of the season
locally considered best for the annual pruning of the vines--which
is the period between the 15th and the 20th of January--a duly
qualified gardener, instructed by the owner of the house, appeared
and clipped those within our walls.
Our Majorcan home proved to be full of the most charming
informalities. Its architecture was the perfection of simplicity; a
child might have designed it. It was on one floor only, and measured
fifteen paces square. There were neither hall nor passages, and in a
short time we found ourselves wondering why we had ever considered
such things necessary. All the doors were glazed. The front door
opened directly into a sitting-room, whose wide glass door led to
another room that opened on to the veranda. To the right of the
front door was the Boy's bedroom, to the left an apartment that
served as studio. From the back sitting-room opened, on one side, a
bedroom that had a useful dress closet; and on the other a compact
little kitchen with a cool larder that was almost as big as itself.
The kitchen walls were lined breast-high with blue and white tiles;
and under the window that looked towards the sea was a neat range of
stoves, for the consumption of both coal and charcoal.
The two sitting-rooms boasted the distinction of wall papers, and
the ceiling of our favourite room--that which opened on to the
veranda--represented an azure sky among whose fluffy white clouds
flitted birds and butterflies. At one side of the house was a
stable, and an enclosure fitted with stone tubs and jars, meant to
be used in the washing of clothes.
The veranda, or _terras_, bade fair to become a perpetual joy to us.
It was roofed by a spreading vine, whose foliage even in November
was luxuriant. The former tenants had eaten all the grapes except
one bunch, of which the wasps had taken possession; and we were
either too generous or too timid to dispute their claim.
On the broad ledge of the veranda, on either side of the short
flight of steps leading down to the garden, were great green
flower-pots. Three held pink ivy-leaved geraniums, one contained a
cactus that had exactly the appearance of four prickly sea-urchins
set in mould, the others were empty.
The garden measured nineteen paces by twenty-two. Raised paths of
concrete divided it into eight beds. The four larger encircled the
quaint draw-well; the four smaller were in a row, two on either side
of the veranda steps. The beds held a number of fruit trees. There
was a sturdy lemon that bore both fruit and blossom, and three
orange-trees; one carrying about sixty mandarin oranges. And besides
a second vine there were seven almond-trees and two apricots. A
shrub in whose racemes of hawthorn-scented blossom bees were busy,
we had never before seen. Later we learned that it was the loquat.
Some rose bushes, which obligingly flowered all winter, a jasmine, a
tall scented verbena, a long row of sweet peppers, two clumps of
artichokes, and sundry tufts of herbs completed our vegetable
kingdom.
Majorca is a paradise for the gardener--or would be, were the
rainfall more assured--for the climate varies so little that almost
anything can be planted at any season.
The day we took possession of the house I sowed some rows of dwarf
peas. In a week they were above the ground and continued to flourish
exceedingly, until brought to a standstill by the long-continued
drought. The rain in January set them a-growing again, and from
early February till April we had dishes of green peas from our own
ground.
At the foot of the garden, separated from it by a high stone wall,
were two small dwellings. One was empty. In the other there resided
a cobbler named Pepe, his wife, and a lean red kitten.
The sudden arrival of us foreigners proved an event of extraordinary
interest in the circumscribed lives of the pair, and of the skinny
kitten, who developed into quite a handsome cat on our scraps. Mr.
and Mrs. Pepe had no veranda, but from their patch of garden a tiny
staircase led to a _mirador_--a species of roof watch-tower--from
which they had a capital view of the town, the port, and of their
neighbours.
As in these sunny November days we lived with the wide glass doors
open to the veranda, there was so much to observe in our doings that
for the first week at least of our stay Pepe's customers must have
been neglected; for morning, noon, and night he was at his post of
supervision. As we sat at table we got quite accustomed to seeing
his squat figure outlined against the sky as he undisguisedly
watched our movements. Sometimes he even carried his quaint spouted
wine-bottle and hunk of rye bread up to the _mirador_, and enjoyed
his breakfast with a vigilant eye on us.
Pepe had a taste for gardening, and grew chrysanthemums and
carnations in the few feet of soil attached to his dwelling.
Sometimes, with due ceremonial, he presented us with one of his
striped carnations. And one day, when I was in the garden, he
hastened down from his post of observation to reappear, smiling
broadly, at our side gate, bearing the gift of a sturdy root of
French marigold. We showed our appreciation of the compliment by
sending him a boot to mend; and, courteous preliminaries having been
thus exchanged, we continued to live on terms of distant amity. The
marigold I promptly planted in one of the empty green flower-pots,
where throughout the winter it bore a constant succession of its
brown and orange velvet flowers.
A family from Andalusia--a father, mother, and four children--occupied
the house adjoining ours. They seemed good-tempered, easy-going folks,
living a happy careless life in this land of sunshine. Their somewhat
extensive garden was well kept and fruitful.
The father, like so many of the residents in these islands, was a
bird-fancier. And when, on sunny mornings, assisted by his children,
he had carried out the dozens of cages containing his pets, and had
hung them on his pomegranate-trees, and on the pergola, where the
purple convolvulus twined about branches heavy with golden oranges,
our world was vocal with their song.
At the foot of their garden was a flourishing little poultry-yard,
in which, with laudable success, they reared chickens and ducks and
rabbits. They supplied us regularly with eggs, and when any of the
live stock was ripe for the pot we always had the first offer of
purchase.
The method of procedure was to catch the beast--plump rabbit, young
rooster, or whatever it chanced to be--and to carry it, suspended by
the legs and vigorously protesting, to the door of our _casa_ to
exhibit its proportions, and to inquire if we would like to
purchase. On the sale being effected, as it usually was, for the
quality of their live stock was unequalled, the victim would be
taken away, to reappear half an hour later stripped of fur or
feather, and with its members decorously dressed for cooking.
Early in the year the Andalusian family was increased by one--a fine
boy. A few weeks after, the mother paid me a state visit to receive
congratulations and exhibit the baby. Going into the studio, I said:
"Our neighbour has brought her new baby to show us."
The Man waved me away with a protesting paint-brush.
"No," he said. "Don't buy it. Send her away. I don't mind the ducks
and the chickens, but I absolutely refuse to eat the baby!"
Life in the Casa Tranquila, as we had christened our winter home,
was a pleasant irresponsible matter compared with existence in
ceremonial Britain. Social pleasures we undoubtedly had, but no
social duties. Housekeeping ran on the simplest of lines. Maria, the
woman who had been key-keeper of the house while it was empty, came
in to do the rough work. Apolonia, a smiling, rubicund old dame,
with a keen sense of humour, acted as laundress. It was all so easy
and unconventional and open-airy that we never quite got over the
impression that we were enjoying a prolonged camping-out, and that
it was by accident that our roof was of tiles and not of canvas.
[Illustration: Our Suburban Street]
Our morning began with the arrival of a baker who brought the bread,
rolls, and _enciamadas_ for the day's consumption. We did not use
the milk of goats, though, twice daily, a little flock, with
tinkling bells, their udders tied up in neat bags of check cotton
for protection against the unauthorised raids of their thirsty kids,
was driven past our door to be milked before the eyes of each
customer. A sprightly matron served us morning and evening with the
milk of a cow, which her husband spent his days herding on any stray
patches of herbage in the district.
Each day at noon, Mundo, the greengrocer, called with a donkey-cart
containing quite a comprehensive assortment of fruit and vegetables.
Three kinds of potatoes he always brought--new, old, and
sweet--pumpkins that were sold in slices, egg-plants, garlic strung
in long festoons, spinach, cauliflowers, sweet peppers, curious
fungi, purple carrots, sugar beans; all at astonishingly low prices.
I shall always remember the November day when, in a moment of
forgetfulness, I asked for a whole pennyworth of tomatoes, and was
afterwards confronted by the difficulty of disposing of so many.
A popular article of diet seemed to be the gigantic radishes, in
which not only Mundo but all the little shops appeared to do a big
trade. We puzzled long over the way in which they could be used
before making the chance discovery that they are cut in round slices
and eaten raw with soup or meat, as one would eat bread.
III
PALMA, THE PEARL OF THE MEDITERRANEAN
As a place of winter residence for those who like sunshine, and are
not enamoured of society, Palma could hardly be excelled.
For one thing, the town is just the right size. It is not so small
as to allow the visitor to feel dull, or so large as to permit him
to become conscious of his own insignificance.
While Palma is bright and full of movement and of cheerful sounds,
it is an adorable place to be lazy in. The sunshine and soft air
foster indolence; and though there is no stagnation, everybody takes
life easily in this walled city by the southern sea. There is no
bustle, no need to hurry. What is not accomplished to-day can be
done to-morrow. And if to-morrow finds it still undone--why, what is
the future made up of, if not of an illimitable succession of
to-morrows?
When the ancients christened Palma "the Pearl of the Mediterranean,"
they gave it a title that to this day it deserves.
Something of the resplendence of the town is due to the
warm-coloured stone of which it is built--a stone that shades from
the palest cream to warm amber. Every stroll we took through its
mediaeval streets, every walk along its antique ramparts, every
saunter down the mole, made us more and more in love with its
beauty, which we seemed always to be viewing under some new
condition of light or atmosphere.
[Illustration: Palma de Mallorca, from the Terreno]
The Man never wearied of the crooked secret-looking streets and fine
buildings of the old, old city. By day or night they held for him
an inexplicable charm. He was always discovering some new "bit"--a
quaint _patio_, a Moorish arch, an antique gateway, a curious
interior, a sculptured window.
And the streets were always full of life. A cluster of officers in
full dress chattering on the Borne; a company of soldiers marching
to the strains of an inspiriting band; a priest, under a great
rose-coloured silk umbrella, on the way to administer extreme
unction to someone sick unto death--all the spectators falling on
their knees as the solemn little procession passed by; or a party of
queerly attired natives of Iviza, just arrived by the thrice-a-week
boat, and curiously foreign both in speech and appearance, though
their island home was only sixty or seventy miles distant; or a
string of carriages whose occupants were on the way to a morning
reception at the Almudaina, the old Moorish palace, now the
residence of the Captain-General.
Everything in the place was new to us, and the feeling of novelty
never waned.
As for the Boy, from the moment of our arrival his interest centred
in the port. Its constantly changing array of shipping, and the fine
sun-tanned buccaneers who did business on its blue waters, supplied
him with endless congenial subjects for pictures.
The port of Palma nestles, one might almost say, right into the
heart of the city. The chief promenade, the Borne, ends on its
brink. The Cathedral and the Lonja dignify its banks.
The gay life of the harbour lies open to the casual observer. Under
the ramparts, by the side of the public road, old men in red caps
and suits of velveteen that the sun has faded to marvellous hues sit
at their placid occupation of net-mending. There, too, when the
_falucas_ are moored at the edge of the wharf, come the families of
the fishermen to join them at lunch--the women bringing down wine
and bread and the men supplying a tasty hot dish from the less
saleable items of their catch. Sometimes a cloth is spread, and
then the _al fresco_ repast assumes quite a ceremonious air.
Stern on to the _muelle_, the long breakwater that partitions off
the water of the harbour from the open bay, lie the larger craft:
the most important of which are the white-painted steamers of the
_Islena Maritima_, the fleet of boats belonging to a Majorcan
Company that carry mails and passengers between the island and Spain
or Algeria.
Once Palma was a great maritime centre. Now little foreign shipping
does business in her port. But though the bulk of the traffic is
local, an open port always holds the element of the unexpected.
Sometimes a leviathan-like liner, making a holiday tour of
Mediterranean ports, anchors by the wharf, and her tourists, eager
to make the most of the hours at their disposal, hasten on shore to
pack themselves into every available form of conveyance and drive
off, enclosed in a pillar of dust of their own raising, to enjoy a
hasty glance at Valldemosa, Miramar and Soller. When at sunset they
steam out of the harbour it is with the pleasantly erroneous
conviction that they have exhausted the attractions of the island.
Once a fine ship that sharp eyes recognized as the private yacht of
the Czar of Russia quietly entered the bay, and after a brief stay,
during which her voyagers held no intercourse with land, as quietly
departed. And after a spring gale a Greek sailing ship, her
main-mast gone, was towed in by a French tug. Sometimes it was the
capture of a smuggler's _faluca_ caught in the act of trying to run
a cargo of contraband tobacco that furnished the excitement.
On the frequent feast days Palma was gay with flags. Every Consulate
in the town--and they were many--mounted its special banner. The
gun-boats sported strings of bunting out of all proportion to their
size, the merchantmen flew their ensigns, and though the business of
the town was transacted with its customary air of casual
lightheartedness, the never-lacking holiday feeling was
intensified.
[Illustration: Calle de la Almudaina, Palma]
One November feast day the Boy, who was painting at the port,
discovered among the decorated craft a ship flying the British flag;
a closer inspection revealed her to be the _Ancona_ of Leith, just
arrived with a cargo of coal. Nearer home I doubt if the proximity
of a Leith collier would have appealed strongly to our patriotism.
In that southern latitude things were different. A sudden and
fervent desire to hear our own northern accent awoke within us, and,
incited by our adventurous son, we determined to board the _Ancona_
and pay our respects to her captain.
It was a glorious morning, one of those wonderful mornings when the
world seems newly born, that we three went down the mole. Lying
beyond the schooner from Soller, and the _pailebot_ from Valencia
that was shipping a cargo of empty wicker-cased wine flasks, we came
to the _Ancona_.
Three railless plank gangways connected her with the wharf, and down
two of the planks Majorcans in their elaborately bepatched blue
linen suits were carrying straw baskets of coal. We ventured up the
third. Our gangway ended on a six-feet-high platform situated on the
verge of a hold still brimful of coal. As we hesitated on our perch,
wondering what to do next, a bronzed man in slippers appeared. It
was the first mate.
"It's a fine day," the Man gave colloquial greeting. "Is the skipper
on board?"
"Ay. It's a real bonnie day," the mate made truthful reply. "No.
He's just gone up the quay to see the ship's agents."
The homely words, the familiar accent, fell like music on our ears.
A few words of explanation brought the mate to our elevated
platform, where he spoke with the inherent appreciation of the Scot
of the beauty of the town.
"Ay. It's a bonnie place this. I think it's as pretty a place as
I've seen. No. We've been busy on board and I haven't had time to
see the town yet. But I'm enjoyin' the view fine from here. The
captain? Oh, you couldn't miss him. You're sure to come across him.
He's just up on the front."
So, in quest of a compatriot whom we couldn't miss, we set off up
the street. And sure enough, before we had proceeded very far we met
the captain face to face.
If the captain of the _Ancona_ was surprised at being accosted by a
trio of complete strangers, he was too much a Highland gentleman and
a man of the world to reveal any astonishment. In five minutes we
were all on a friendly footing, our nationality the firm basis of
good-fellowship; a little later we were all seated outside the
Lirico, over tall glasses of vermouth and seltzer, recalling
familiar scenes and discovering mutual acquaintances.
The captain was at a loose end. We were going to the fruit market,
to the bookseller's, to the Cathedral. So he came too.
In the market, as he saw me buy big bunches of yellow grapes at
twopence-halfpenny a kilo (nearly two and a quarter pounds) his face
lit up--"I'll be for sending the steward up here," he said.
Chance favoured us. We turned into the Borne just in time to see an
infantry battalion march past to the strains of a good military
band. A general had died and the soldiers were on their way to
escort his body to the cemetery. The music, which was appropriately
solemn, was played with great feeling. And as the procession moved
slowly up the street the closed window shutters were thrown open and
fair senoras in light dresses thronged the balconies.
It was as though Palma had determined to reveal herself at her best
to our companion. Even the interior of the Cathedral, lit by the
brilliant sunshine that filtered through the stained-glass windows,
seemed grander than ever.
"I've had a splendid time," the captain said when we parted. "Though
I've been here two or three times, I never saw so much of the town
before."
We were leaving next morning for Miramar, and before our return the
_Ancona_ would have sailed. But we said good-bye with the promise
of meeting again--a promise that was fulfilled, for on two
subsequent voyages the captain was a welcome guest at the Casa
Tranquila.
"The captain is a gentleman," the Boy said half-a-dozen hours later
when he returned from the ship, where, by special invitation, he had
been having a smoke and a chat with her master. "See what he
insisted on giving me. I refused, of course, but he made me take
_that_ and _this_."
"That" was a batch of thrice precious literature in the shape of
sixpenny editions of novels and magazines. "This" was a tin of
tobacco marked "full strength," that class of dark-complexioned
rum-odorous tobacco that the Boy specially affects, and whose lack
in Majorca had formed the theme of his only regret.
Life on the native craft in the port is entertaining to watch. The
dark-skinned rovers of the deep contrast so oddly with the mildly
domestic aspect given by the presence on board of the _patron's_
wife, and by her way of keeping hens loose on deck, and of hanging
feminine garments to dry on the poop.
One Sunday morning we had been scrutinizing their doings with the
open stare that life in Spain teaches one both to give and to take
composedly, when we discovered that luncheon-time had stolen
unawares upon us. As we walked back down the pier we glanced
inquiringly at the cafes that lined the lower part of the way; they
were all crowded with jovial seamen and uninviting. We had resolved
to eat at the Lirico, and were leaving the pier, when something in
the situation of a little open-air eating-place just on the brink of
the sea, almost in the shadow of the city wall, attracted us; and
advancing to the awning, under which little groups of people were
seated, we demanded food.
The proprietress, a plump, smiling woman with a purple silk kerchief
on her head and a green apron, welcomed us in fluent but,
unfortunately, unintelligible Majorcan. She knew no Spanish. All we
could gather was that if we seated ourselves she would give us to
eat. And nothing loth, we sat down at an unoccupied table whose
bare boards were scrubbed as clean as hands could make them.
Beyond the shade of the roof-awning the sun was shining; the pure
air filtered through its matting sides, and in our full view the
waves were dashing against the rocky shore. At a table close by,
three old cronies were dining. Scorning the use of tumblers, they
passed the quaint wine-flask from hand to hand, each in turn
throwing back his head and letting the red wine fall in a stream,
from what to us seemed an unbridgeable distance, between his parted
lips. Four soldiers were eating macaroni. Two men who had been
fishing off the breakwater were supping thick soup.
A pretty little girl, her hair caught up in a business-like "bun,"
darted in and out amongst her mother's customers, her dark eyes
quick to discern their wants. From inside the shanty that served as
kitchen came an appetizing sound of frizzling.
Turning her attention to us, the little girl put the inevitable dish
of olives and a flask of red wine on the table; then she placed a
wooden fork and spoon, a plate, a tumbler, and a roll, before each
of us. Then, with the suggestion of an air of ceremony, she
carefully laid at the Man's right hand something resembling a folded
piece of clean canvas. It was not until the meal was nearing a
conclusion that we discovered it was intended to be used as a
napkin.
The table thus spread, she darted into the kitchen and returned
bearing a huge flat earthen dish, which held as inviting a mess as
we had ever tasted. The main portion of its contents consisted of
small thin slices of beef-steak, mushrooms, and strips of potatoes
that had all been fried together, after the native fashion, in
boiling oil. Daintily chopped green herbs lent a savoury garnish to
the whole. After a momentary hesitation, due solely to lack of the
customary cutlery, we helped each other with our wooden spoons, and
fell to work with good will.
Perhaps there was some charm in the oddity of our surroundings, in
the fresh breath of the sea air, in the sparkle of the blue water;
perhaps it may have lain in the discovery that if meat is tender and
well-cooked, a fork--and wooden at that--is all the implement
required. Certain it is that as we cleared the last chip of potato
from the earthen dish we all agreed that we had enjoyed the simple
meal more than anything we had eaten in Palma.
When we asked for the bill our little waitress received the sign of
departure with dismay; and the mother, running out, added her
protest. Something else was evidently in active preparation.
Fully convinced that to eat anything more would be an insult to the
dish we had just finished, we waited.
A moment later she triumphantly carried out and set before us a
plate containing a slab of fish, thickly covered with minced garlic
and floating in a pool of rich red oil. It may have been a delicacy
for which the establishment was famed. Our fellow guests were
devouring it with evident enjoyment, zealously sopping up the oil
with their rolls, and leaving their plates polished clean. But to us
it came as an anti-climax.
Carefully inculcated politeness, combined with the knowledge that
from the doorway the cook was eagerly watching us for sign of
appreciation, induced us to choke it down with an outward
affectation of gusto. But we left the garlic and the red oil. Even
an exaggerated idea of the obligations of courtesy could not have
prevailed upon us to swallow them.
We paid the modest bill and fled, lest worse should follow.
A few days later we returned to the quaint open-air cafe. It was a
lovely evening early in November. All day out of a cloudless sky the
sun had beat warmly upon Palma, and the sea had glowed a soft misty
azure. We had been busy indoors letter-writing, for it was a mail
day. It was only after dusk that we were free and, leaving the Casa
Tranquila, set off port-wards to post our letters.
The _Miramar_, the crack ship of the _Islena Maritima_, was on the
point of starting for Barcelona, and all the world of Palma was
hastening towards the harbour to post letters on board; and then,
while promenading the mole, to watch her departure.
After the _Miramar_ had vanished into the darkness and the
spectators had streamed towards the land, we still lingered on the
breakwater. There was no moon, the stars were bright, the wavelets
softly lapped the stones, and we felt placid and restful until quite
suddenly we became aware that we were hungry.
Our proximity suggested the little shanty under the city wall by the
sea, and thither we went.
It was the quiet hour there too. Except for three of the hussars we
had seen before, the well-scrubbed tables were vacant. The soldiers,
recognizing us, gave us friendly greeting, accompanied with the
offer of their tobacco packets. Bright-eyed little Catalina ran to
fetch the napkin, surely the sole emblem of gentility belonging to
the establishment, and the senora herself appeared at the door of
the shed, where she presided over the cooking-pots, to give us "Bona
nit tengan" and to consult with us as to what we would like her to
prepare.
She shook her head when we suggested beef-steaks and mushrooms. At
that hour, apparently, beef was "off."
"Would we have soup?--Majorcan soup," she asked.
We shook our heads. No. We did not fancy soup.
Promising us fresh fish, and something with an untranslatable name,
she disappeared into the shed. And, content to leave the selection
to her, we awaited events.
The comrades in arms had gone, and a pale slender girl, beautiful in
the small-featured, refined type so common in Palma, had taken her
place at the next table. With her was a friend of the same style,
but doubly attractive in that she was overflowing with vivacity. The
younger girl sat silent, her hands folded, her head drooping, while
the elder--who was knitting a petticoat gay with coloured
stripes--chatted briskly. They did not eat, and we guessed they were
waiting for some one to join them.
Sitting near them was a handsome taciturn man with a slouch hat,
long curled moustaches, and a gaudy kerchief twisted about his neck.
That the girls knew him was evident, for though he did not join in
their conversation he seemed to listen to all that was said.
Just as we were served with crisp little fried fish, a figure,
coming from the darkness where the waves were washing the stones,
entered the circle of light. It was the expected man. Hanging up his
rod and fishing basket, he took his place at the table beside the
girls.
His skin was deeply bronzed, his garments were of blue cotton that
sun and sea air had faded to a delicate hue. A scarlet sash was
wound about his waist. His naked brown feet were thrust into
string-soled green shoes.
Catalina, who had been watching for his arrival, ran out with a
slender-spouted bottle of wine and three wooden spoons. Her mother
followed close with an earthenware pipkin of the thick Majorcan soup
that we had declined.
Grouped in an amicable trio, they ate from the same dish, and in
turn drank from the slender spout of the green glass bottle. The
pale girl remained pensively silent, but the other continued to
talk, punctuating her conversation with dramatic movements of her
hands. How we wished we could have understood what she was saying!
When the combined efforts of the three wooden spoons had searched
the red earthenware vessel to its depths, the man who came from the
sea rose and, lifting it in his hand without a word, walked to the
edge of the water and threw the pipkin far into the Mediterranean.
Then returning, he resumed his seat.
No one made any comment upon this inexplicable proceeding. Had the
inoffending pipkin not been empty it might have seemed as though he
were offering a libation to some unseen spirit of the water. But the
actively plied spoons had succeeded in scooping out the last vestige
of the soup.
In the meantime we had been occupied with our second course, which
consisted of lengths of orange-coloured sausage, served hot with
fried potatoes. And a new-comer, an old man, was eating a big plate
of macaroni.
The nimble Catalina, flashing out, set a flat dish, heaped with some
sort of stew, before the trio. What its contents were we could only
guess. The lively maiden and the man were already poking among them
with their wooden forks. The pensive girl had produced a silver fork
and was delicately helping herself, fastidiously turning over the
ingredients. The handsome reticent man sat motionless but observant.
[Illustration: A Supper Party]
They ate in leisurely fashion--nobody hurries in Palma. The gay girl
rattled on in her musical voice, gesticulating with her pretty hands
the while, only occasionally dropping the thread of her dramatic
recital to send her fork foraging with the others, or to throw back
her head and let the red wine trickle down her throat.
"Will he throw that dish away when it is empty?" we were wondering,
when the senora, who was making a special effort on our behalf,
appeared in person carrying a tempting combination of sweet peppers
and young pork.
The question answered itself. When they had finished, the dish stood
empty and ignored. The wine flask was refilled, and when we had paid
our score--wine included, it came to about sevenpence each--we left
the quartette still sitting under the flickering light by the edge
of the unseen waves: the charming girl still lively, the pretty one
distraite, the fisherman amiable, and the handsome listener still
silently attentive.
It had been an odd little interlude--nothing to relate, indeed, but
one of those petty excursions beyond one's own stereotyped world
that make the observers feel, for the moment, as though they were
living in somebody else's life, not in their own.
We finished the evening at what chanced to be the popular
entertainment. If I remember correctly, it combined the attractions
of a cinematograph and a variety show.
We were again out in the starlight, and walking briskly westwards
towards Son Espanolet, when the Boy said abruptly:--
"I wish I knew why that man threw the pipkin into the sea!"
[Illustration: The Saturday Market, Palma]
IV
HOUSEKEEPING
Although, at Son Espanolet, we were subject to no police or other
rate, a small weekly tax was levied with extreme punctuality, on
behalf of himself, by a functionary called the _vigilante_.
The most onerous labour of this alleged guardian of the public would
appear to have been the collection, on Sunday mornings, of a penny
from each householder. I trust I do not malign a worthy citizen,
when I hint that these periodic visits were the only occasions on
which most of his supporters were made conscious of the
_vigilante's_ existence.
His professed duties were to protect the interests of the residents
in the district by prowling about at night, to escort timid
wayfarers home by the light of his lantern, and, like the _sereno_,
to call those who wished to be roused at an early hour. But what
manner of need a community already rich in police, _serenos_,
_carabineros_, and _consumeros_, had of a _vigilante_, was hard to
imagine.
Nobody seemed to know who appointed the _vigilantes_. The Boy had a
theory that our _vigilante_ had assigned himself to the post, and
that his sole exertion lay in calling to collect the fees.
On the morning of our first Sunday at the Casa Tranquila an
imperative knock sounded at the front door. It was the _vigilante_,
a good-looking white-bearded man clad in blue cotton. His
designation was inscribed in bold letters on his cap-band. Having
been forewarned of the custom, I handed over the expected ten
centimos, which he accepted with the dignified courtesy of one who
receives a right, and departed.
Two hours later the Boy, who had been out at the time of the visit,
answered a second summons.
"It's the _vigilante_," he said, returning to the veranda where we
were sitting. "Has anybody got a copper?"
"But I gave the _vigilante_ his penny this morning," I said,
hastening to the door.
At my approach the applicant, recognizing me, waved the matter
aside, as though the mistake had been mine, and he was graciously
pleased to ignore it.
"The houses are so many--one forgets," he said, and strutted off
without loss of dignity.
On Christmas Day he paid us an extra visit, and, sending in a card
with his best wishes, awaited, not in vain, a monetary expression of
our good-will.
The card, which was resplendent in rainbow tints, and richly
emblazoned in gold, bore a representation of a young, dapper, and
exquisitely dressed _vigilante_ who was smoking a cigar. At his feet
were portrayed a noble turkey, several bottles of champagne, and
other seasonable dainties. A side tableau showed the _vigilante_,
armed with his staff of office and a huge bunch of keys, opening a
street door to a belated couple who, presumably, had been locked
out.
On the reverse side of the card was a long poem, which, on behalf of
its presenter, claimed many good offices; notably, that he captured
the evil-doer, and that, filled with fervent zeal, he watched over
our repose. It concluded by stating:--
"_I try to be in all
A perfect Vigilante._"
Apart from similar curious and amusing conventions, with which one
has to become acquainted, the early days of housekeeping in Majorca
find the foreign resident grappling with a succession of petty
difficulties. Besides the differences of language, of coinage, of
weights and measures, the dissimilarity of climate renders
advisable, even necessary, a mode of living that would be quite
unsuited to dwellers in Britain.
To begin with the morning--the customary Majorcan breakfast, which
even at the best hotels consists of a glass of coffee, or a tiny cup
of very thick chocolate, and tumbler of water taken with a single
roll, or an _enciamada_, is a meal from which the ordinary Briton
rises hungry. And one wonders why the Spanish landlord, whose table
is so lavishly spread at other meals, should practise a false
economy in the matter of breakfast. For, after all, a roll costs
only a halfpenny. Dinner is invariably an early function, and an
extensive one, for at their two later meals Spaniards make up for
their abstinence at breakfast. Between the two o'clock dinner and
supper, which is served at any time between eight and ten o'clock,
there is a long blank, which the English visitor usually bridges
with a cup of tea.
To return to the question of breakfast. At the Casa Tranquila we
compromised the matter, and broke our fast on an unstinted quantity
of coffee or chocolate and milk, taken with fruit, rolls and butter,
and _enciamadas_. Majorcan breakfast rolls are of two kinds--the
ordinary crisp ones, and, what we liked better, a soft species
called _panecillos de aceite_.
Bacon is unknown in Majorca, though ham, of strong flavour and
repellent aspect, may be had. It sells at twopence an ounce; and if
you wish to astonish the vendor, you can do so by ordering more
than a quarter of a pound.
We had been warned that we would be forced to do without butter
while in the islands. But matters have progressed--in Palma at
least--since the old butterless days. Now the better class grocers
sell a peculiarly white butter that is made at Son Servera, near
Arta; and almost every provision shop stocks a tinned salt butter
that comes from Copenhagen. By the way, the purchaser must not be
surprised when asked if it is "pig's butter" he wants. The salesman
only means lard.
Cow's milk, another article of diet that used to be scarce in the
islands, can easily be obtained. The price charged is almost the
same as in London and the milk is much richer.
With the aid of a Spanish dictionary it had been a comparatively
simple matter to make out a list of groceries with which to furnish
the shelves of our empty larder. But I must confess that a first
visit to a butcher's shop made me wonder if Majorcan sheep and oxen
differed in construction from British animals, such odd forms did
their dead flesh present.
Cold storage is unknown in Palma. The beasts are killed, cut up, and
sold almost before they have had time to cool. And, if they were not
invariably killed young, their flesh could hardly be so good as it
is, the lamb especially being sweet and tender.
A fact that forcibly strikes anyone from a meat-eating country is
the small quantities of animal food consumed. Where the wife of a
British working-man might spend a shilling on beef, a Majorcan would
spend twopence. Naturally the meat is sold in small pieces, and
inspection is courted. The east-end butcher's printed command to his
customers--"Keep your hands off the beef," would be scorned in the
Balearic Isles. If you shop in native fashion, you walk about the
shop, turning over and critically examining the pieces exposed
within easy reach. When your selection is made you need not invest
in any great quantity. If you fancy calf's head, custom does not
compel you to buy a half head. You can have a pound, a half-pound,
or even a slice.
If your taste turns to fowl, at your request the bird suspended by
its heels is halved, quartered, or wholly dismembered. Its limbs may
lack the noble proportions of a Surrey capon, but they will be well
flavoured and succulent, and you can acquire a wing and slice of the
breast, or a leg, or a yet smaller portion, as your fancy inclines.
We had heard that Majorcans were apt to tax foreigners by making
them pay more than was customary for anything purchased, but such
occurrences were quite outside our experience; though I did come
across an example of Majorcan reasoning that was so amusingly
illogical that I am tempted to repeat it here.
Finding in our picnicking style of housekeeping that a cold tongue
was a useful thing to have in the larder, I frequently ordered one
from the estimable butcher who served us. For a time the price
charged was moderate. One day without warning it was increased by a
half.
My Spanish unaided did not enable me to argue the matter, but Mrs.
Consul chancing to be with me next time I called at the shop, I got
her to inquire the reason of this sudden and unexplained change of
rate.
"Yes. The tongue was a small one, and the price high," admitted the
plump wife of the butcher, who acted as his accountant. "But then I
had charged the senora too little for those we had supplied her with
at first. And though we have many customers, each ox we kill has
only one tongue. And, as I had charged the senora too little for the
others, to be just to myself I was obliged to ask more than the true
price for the last one!"
The method of reasoning was so delightfully irrational and absurd
that I cheerfully paid the confessed overcharge, and we left the
shop laughing. Probably the worthy dame wonders to this day what we
found entertaining in the situation.
Many good and cheap eatables are to be had in Palma if one knows
where to look for them. By degrees we found out the best place to
buy the tasty little pies filled with fish, or meat, and herbs,
raisins and pine-seeds, or the funny turn-overs stuffed with spinach,
that all the bakers make; and discovered the confectioner who sold
the nicest cakes and sweets, and where to buy freshly-baked almonds,
and who had the best quince preserve.
A little investigation introduced us to articles of food that we
would never have met had we continued to live in a hotel--to the
_cocas_ that so closely resemble the Scottish "cookies"; and the
_bizcochos_, that are just crisp freshly toasted slices of the
largest sized _cocas_.
When we arrived in October, fruit was plentiful. Delicious grapes
were selling at twopence-halfpenny a kilo (about a penny a pound),
and ripe purple or golden figs were eighteen a penny. As the winter
advanced the price of grapes gradually rose. And though one day in
early December I bought for fivepence in the market four pounds of
well-flavoured yellow grapes, by the end of January the finest were
a peseta (about ninepence) a kilo.
Fresh figs gradually declined in flavour as they rose in price. And
towards Christmas the country folks, who come in on Saturday
mornings to the smaller market that is held in the Plaza de Mercado,
began to bring in rush baskets of the home-dried figs that have been
ripened in the sun and packed between fig leaves.
The continued drought raised the price of vegetables, though small
cauliflowers were still only a halfpenny each, and a good sized
bunch of carrots could be bought for the coin that is rather less in
value than a farthing. Most Majorcan carrots are purple in hue, so
deep a purple as to be almost black. They have to be partially
cooked alone, before being added to anything else, as their colour
dyes the water black. It is their only fault. Their flavour is
excellent.
Early in February we began to use the green peas and turnips that in
November I had sown in our garden; but for the lack of rain they
would have been ready a month earlier. And an occasional sowing of
spinach yielded a quick and unfailing supply throughout the winter.
The question of firing in so genial a climate is an easy one to
answer.
For cleanliness, coolness, convenience and economy in cooking there
is no fuel that compares with charcoal. As a charcoal stove has no
flue, the lighting is attended with a certain amount of smoke from
the resinous sticks that are sold specially for the purpose of
kindling. But once the charcoal is lit it gives no further trouble.
It will cook slowly or quickly, as desired, scarcely soiling the
outside of the vessels used in the process: and will stay alight,
without much attention, as long as the cook requires. Further, it
has the exceptional merit of keeping its heat concentrated within a
small area, so that the temperatures of both the kitchen and the
cook remain normal.
Our favourite sitting-room--the one that opened directly to the
veranda--had the unusual advantage of an open hearth, and a few
chilly days that occurred in November made us hasten in search of
logs for burning.
Inquiry in the neighbourhood directed us to a large saw mill in the
Calle de la Fabrica, where we ordered what to us was an unknown
quantity of firewood. The price paid was less than five shillings.
When the wood was delivered we were amazed to find that it half
filled a cart; and that, in addition to an abundant supply of both
logs and rough wood all cut into convenient sizes, the kindly
saw-miller had included four little slabs of the resinous wood used
for kindling.
The wood was built up on the floor under the lower shelves of our
roomy larder, and there, all through November, December, and the
first half of January, it lay untouched.
We had got to the point of discussing what we would do with it on
our leaving for England, when the weather turned chilly enough to
afford us excuse for indulging in the luxury of a log fire. But
though we had a fire on every occasion when artificial heat was
necessary, there were still logs remaining when at the end of April
we quitted the Casa.
A prominent feature of our district, which lay just without the
walls of Palma, was the elaborate system employed to guard against
the smuggling of contraband goods into the city.
The boundary of Son Espanolet, which joined the country, was heavily
guarded. In addition to high walls and much intricate zigzagging of
barbed wire, wherever two roads met there was a little station-house,
or, to be more exact, a shanty, for the shelter of _consumeros_, both
male and female, whose duty it was to examine all goods entering the
city limits. And at frequent intervals all along the boundary roads
was a species of sentry-box, usually containing a chair and a
water-jar, in which for sixteen hours a day a _consumero_ was supposed
to keep watch over his own bit of boundary, and to be ready, if
anything suspicious attracted his notice, to warn the others, by a
series of shrill whistles, to be on the alert.
During the long hours passed in enforced idleness at their posts,
many of the men had contrived to give their surroundings quite a
home-like appearance. A pleasant man, whose location was at the end
of our road, always seemed to have his children playing about him;
and often his wife used to take her knitting and the newest baby,
and the family goat and a big earthenware pan of amber-tinted rice,
and make quite a picnic under the trees near his watch-box.
Another _consumero_ had a stripling vine that he was carefully
training up the trellis over his shed. We sometimes saw him watering
it. And one, a tall silent man, whose station abutted on a piece of
vacant ground, had gradually erected quite a long range of hen-coops
along the base of a warm wall; and there he would stroll in the
sunshine attended by a flock of flourishing poultry, chiefly of the
Plymouth Rock breed.
But these were exceptions. The majority of the _consumeros_ seemed
content to lazy away their days and doze away their nights as
comfortably as possible. When the early winter darkness had fallen,
it was picturesque to see them lighting a brazier, or sitting
huddled up in their warm brown blankets beside its glowing embers
fast asleep.
When we had been spending the evening in town and were coming home
late, we sometimes enjoyed waiting until we were close upon one of
these muffled figures, and then, in chorus, saying politely "Buenas
noches."
[Illustration: A Consumos Station]
Then we would see the comatose form galvanize into a semblance of
life, and hear a drowsy voice from the midst of the enwrappings
reply "Buenas noches tengan."
The discovery that the monetary recompense for the sixteen hours
that the _consumero_ worked or played was only two pesetas--or about
eighteenpence of English money--showed that if he was not
overwrought neither was he overpaid.
At nightfall these guardians of our district were reinforced by the
addition of two active young _carabineros_ who carried loaded
rifles. So between the police, the armed soldiers, the sleepy
_consumeros_, the elusive _sereno_ and the ornamental _vigilante_,
the residents of Son Espanolet ought to have gone to bed with a
feeling of security.
The question of language is a somewhat grave one in Majorca, where
the inhabitants naturally, but inconsiderately from our point of
view, insist upon speaking their native tongue, which is neither
Spanish nor French, but sounds like a corruption of both.
Majorcan, which is said to be much older than _Castellano_, the
official language of Spain, is closely allied to _Catalan_. And
though many words suggest French, Spanish, and even Italian
influence, the islanders seem, by an ingenious chipping of
terminations and the addition of weird sounds entirely their own, to
have evolved a tongue which goes far towards outdoing all others in
unmelodious sounds. A peacefully animated conversation in Majorcan
suggests impending bloodshed. To overhear a quarrel would be
horrific. Happily discord is rare in Majorca. As far as our six
months of experience showed, a better natured or more harmonious
people never existed.
The dialect in use in Minorca and Iviza, though practically the same
as that of Majorca, varies in each island. So it is not surprising
that the visitor to the Balearic Islands is strongly advised to
confine his efforts to the acquirement of Spanish, not even to
attempt to learn Majorcan. And indeed the facilities for doing so
are few. We could find no Majorcan dictionary, though a weekly paper
in the language, _Pu-Put_, is published in Palma.
All the educated classes speak Spanish fluently. Yet in most of the
shops, even in Palma, and in the country districts, the native
language prevails.
Very few of the working women understand Spanish. Their lives having
been passed on the islands, they remain ignorant of any but their
mother tongue; though it is common to find their menfolk speaking
Spanish well, owing to their having been in the army, or to their
having passed the period of voluntary exile that most of them serve
almost as they do the demands of the State.
Those who know, say that Majorca is a bad place to learn Spanish in;
that in order to have a good accent the intending traveller is best
to acquire it elsewhere. And as Borrow says, you must open your
mouth and take your hands out of your pockets to speak Spanish.
Before leaving London we tried, after a very desultory fashion, to
pick up a little Spanish. The Boy, who took Berlitz lessons, got on
famously and was our mainstay from the moment we crossed the Spanish
frontier at Port Bou. But he declares that he had not been long in
Palma before he found himself speaking Spanish with a Majorcan
accent.
For my part, in point of language I found the direction of even so
small an establishment as the Casa Tranquila very puzzling,
especially at first. After carefully gleaning a knowledge of the
Spanish coinage that enabled me to count up to say ten, in pesetas
and centimos, it was bewildering to find sums calculated in _reals_
and in _perros grandes_ and _perros pequenas_.
I shall never forget the first time Apolonia, the laundress,
appeared to deliver up our clean linen and to receive her just
recompense. When I inquired how much we owed her, Apolonia told me
the sum, but she did it in Majorcan.
"Onza reals, cuatro centims, dos centims."
"Que vale en pesetas?" I asked, but Apolonia could not reckon in
pesetas. Raising her stubby fingers, she proceeded to make
cabalistic signs in the air, repeating the whole "Onza reals, cuatro
centims, dos centims," in a voice that grew louder and louder, as
though the more noise she made the more likely was she to pierce my
thick understanding.
Maria, hearing the discussion, left her dusting, and running swiftly
on her string-soled _alpargatas_, came to the rescue.
If matters had been bad before, they were now worse. Four hands were
in the air. Two voices in Majorcan, that became momentarily more
strident, kept repeating the tale of reals and centims until,
feeling undecided whether to laugh or to cry, I cut the matter short
by emptying the contents of my housekeeping purse on the table and
imploring Apolonia to help herself.
After many protestations she agreed to do so. And with much
reluctant and timorous hovering of her fingers over the coins, at
last selected the exact sum; which, before taking possession of, she
carefully spread before my eyes, calling upon Maria to witness that
she had not abused my trust.
The calculations of Mundo, the vegetable man, were--if
possible--more distracting; for having inherited the national
characteristic of honesty to an almost unnatural degree, the worthy
Mundo, in his desire to be strictly just in his dealings, had a way
of splitting farthings that sometimes proved inexplicable, not only
to his customers but also to himself.
How often, when he stood puzzling over some fraction of a penny,
have I felt impelled to say rashly: "Bother the expense, Mundo. I'll
make you a present of the half farthing!"
Fortunately for Mundo's opinion of my sanity, the spirit of economy
that tinctures the balmy air of these Fortunate Isles prevented any
such extravagant proceeding.
[Illustration: The Castle of Bellver]
V
TWO HISTORIC BUILDINGS
After we were fairly settled in our house our first excursion
naturally was to the Castle of Bellver, the ancient fortress that,
from the veranda, we saw clearly silhouetted against the western
sky.
The afternoon was glorious. The sky was a cloudless blue, the
sunlight cast deep shadows; to drive there in one of the quaint,
open-sided tramcars would have been a treat. But there had been
thunder in the night, and the apprehensive authorities had decided
that it was a day for bringing out the closed vehicles. So we sat in
the stuffy little car, and drove out through crowded Santa Catalina
and across the bridge that spanned the dry _torrente_ of San Magin,
and past the _consumos_ sheds towards the Terreno, the favourite
summer resort of Palma folks, whose charming villas clothe the
slope leading to the steep hill on whose summit stands the old
castle.
The sun was hot, the air exhilarating. Flowers--roses, zinnias,
plumbago, chrysanthemums, geraniums--still bloomed in the villa
gardens. To us it was a glorious summer day. To the Majorcans it was
already winter. The pretty houses were nearly all empty. Their
owners had returned to town.
The old road to the Castle is a stiff climb up a rocky slope. The
new road is an excellent carriage drive that winds round the hill.
We chose the steep way, and found ourselves frequently pausing and
turning to look back across the sparkling waters of the bay to
Palma, which at that moment was looking, as it so often does, like
some celestial city.
The air was fragrant with the essence of the pines that clothed the
slopes--at their feet tall pink heath and wild lavender were in
bloom.
When Jaime the First built Bellver for a summer palace, he made it
an invincible fortress. One thing only could one imagine as more
difficult than getting into the Castle, and that would be getting
out of it. Yet, had we so willed, on this balmy afternoon the
hitherto impregnable stronghold with its deep moat, its implacable
walls, might have been ours without even a show of resistance; for
when we reached the gateway we found it open and unguarded.
But fortunately for the reputation of Bellver our mood was pacific;
and we were content to linger without until an old woman, who had
espied us as she was leaving the Castle with what was presumably the
washing of the custodian in a chequered handkerchief under her arm,
ran back calling loudly for "Bordoi."
Bordoi appeared in the person of the custodian of the Castle. He was
an old soldier, gaunt, lean, courteous, and evidently possessing a
genuine pride in his charge.
The first thing to which he called our attention was the grating set
high over the entrance, through which, after the endearing fashion
of their time, the occupants of the Castle were accustomed to shower
a gentle hint to depart, in the form of arrows or boiling water,
upon the heads of any visitors whose appearance they did not fancy.
The Castle, which is in the form of a circle, is built round a
courtyard containing a great draw-well. Looking down, it was
interesting to me to see that the moist sides of the interior were
thickly coated with luxuriant maidenhair fern, such as we had years
before noticed growing inside the mouth of the well in the house of
the maker of amphorae in Pompeii.
Reaching down his long arm, the custodian picked me a frond,
explaining that it made a wholesome medicinal drink--"quite as good
as sarsaparilla."
And here an odd query occurs to me. Does the office of caretaker
conduce to dyspepsia, or does the enforced leisure of the occupation
dispose to hypochondria? During a little journey through the
Shakespeare country, for instance, it was impossible--even for such
very polite people as ourselves--to avoid noticing the boxes of
patent pills or of much-vaunted lotions that figured prominently
amongst the private possessions of the people who showed us the
places of interest.
The stern face of the old keep has frowned on many tragic sights. It
was up these rocky slopes that the headless body of the third Jaime
was borne, after his luckless attempt, at the battle of Lluchmayor,
to wrest his kingdom from a usurper. And it was there, too, that the
boy son who had fought so bravely by his father's side was carried,
desperately wounded.
In more recent times Bellver has acted the part of a State prison.
Political prisoners, numbering as many as three or four hundred at a
time, have been immured within its massive walls. It was easy to
picture them clustering in the spacious courtyard about the well, or
pacing the open-sided gallery overlooking it, or lingering on the
flat roof, from which such an amazingly comprehensive view may be
had.
Seen from beneath, the height of the Castle is dwarfed by its
encircling walls. It is only on looking down from the battlements
and seeing the immense depths of the surrounding moats that one
realizes the strength of the inflexible grip in which captives would
be held.
In these days a rescue by means of airship might be feasible. For an
aviator to alight on the vast flat circle of the Castle roof, to
pick up a prisoner, and fly off again, would presumably be an easy
matter. But in those days airships were unknown, and it must have
been maddening to be pent so near Palma that every building might be
distinguished, to be able to note the coming and going of the ships,
to view the fair fertile country in every direction, and yet know
that the deep encompassing moat rendered any attempt at escape a
futility.
In one of the rooms a memorial tablet had been inserted in the wall
in remembrance of a deposed Minister of State, who endured six years
of incarceration before dying there in 1808.
In his chamber a window, reached by steps and stone-seated, afforded
a lovely prospect across the blue waters of the harbour to the
stately Cathedral and the town. It was pitiful to see that the gaudy
tiles that paved the embrasure were worn bare, and to note that, by
some curious coincidence, the face in the bas-relief looked
longingly towards the window.
In the immense kitchen the most remarkable feature was the
chimney--a space like a large room--of which the smoke-blackened
sides narrowed up and up, until far overhead its orifice appeared a
mere eyelet of light against the sky. But this ancient fireplace had
been superseded by a long range of charcoal stoves, and the savour
of roasting oxen will never again ascend that giant chimney.
The Castle of Bellver is full of interest, but it is the roof that
holds the visitor fascinated. On its surface one can walk round and
round in perfect security, meeting a fresh and glorious picture at
every turn. To the north the high velvet hills bar the view.
Southwards, beyond the clustered roofs of the Terreno, the
Mediterranean ripples away towards the African coast. Towards the
west amid the hills lies Ben Dinat, where, after the historic
battle, the Conquistador dined well off bread and garlic; and east
is the lovely plain of Palma, with Santa Catalina and Son Espanolet
(and the quite inconspicuous Casa Tranquila) in the middle distance.
Round the battlements many names, both of the bond and of the free,
were carven. Our guide proudly pointed out three that, coming
amongst the Spanish designations, we read with a curious sense of
familiarity:--
"JOHN SUTHERLAND BLACK.
JAMES HUNTER.
JAMES HUNTER, JUNR."
The date was August, 1905. And the owners of the British names, our
guide told us, were scientific men who had journeyed to Palma to
witness the total eclipse of the sun. And in so doing they assuredly
showed wisdom, for it would have been difficult to find a better
place from which to observe the phenomenon than this wide roof that
seemed so near the sky.
When the men essayed to climb the high tower I waited below on the
roof, and was idly leaning over the battlements when a stonecrop
fast-rooted in the interstices of the wall attracted me. Wondering
what manner of plant would choose to live in that arid situation, I
was examining it closely when I discovered that, even in that
seemingly inaccessible spot, a caterpillar had found it out, and was
busily feeding on its succulent foliage.
The caterpillar might be a common one--I have little knowledge of
entomology--but it was new to me; and its appearance was so
unusually gay as to appear to merit description. The body, which
showed alternate stripes of light and dark grey, was girdled by
black bands, which were further decorated by spots of vivid scarlet;
while the head--or was it the tail?--flaunted a double scarlet
plume.
When the men again joined me, I drew the attention of the custodian
to the gaudy insect, and asked if he knew the species.
He shook his head dubiously, confessing that he had never noticed
one like it before. Then his eyes caught sight of the plant on which
it fed, and he instantly brightened up.
"I know that plant," he said. "It is valuable, senora, very
valuable. It makes a good medicine."
Our next visit was to the Lonja. In the good old days when Palma was
a great mercantile centre--the days when thirty thousand sailors
found employment from its port--a Majorcan architect designed the
Lonja to serve as an exchange.
This old-time architect and his builders must have been past masters
of their art, for though hundreds of years have slipped by since
then, and the Lonja no more serves any active purpose, it still
survives to delight by the simple grandeur of its design. Seen as it
stands with only a wide thoroughfare separating it from the
sparkling waters of the port, with its palm-trees in front and a
cloudless blue sky overhead, the antique building is one of the most
beautiful sights in a city that abounds in beautiful things.
We had been told that the Lonja was open to the public on the
afternoons of Thursdays and Sundays. So one Sunday evening, early in
our stay, the Man and I stopped in front of the great door, and
tried to push it open. It did not yield a hair's-breadth. Indeed, it
seemed to wear an expression of stolid immobility, as though
secretly defying our puny efforts to induce it to reveal the
treasures it guarded.
Sitting in a chair in the shadow of the building an old policeman
was dozing. Him the Man roused and interrogated.
He shook his head over the idea of the Lonja being on view on stated
days. But the Lonja was at the _disposicion_ of the senor. The
senor could see it on any day. He would fetch the keeper of the
keys.
[Illustration: Palma, from the Woods of Bellver]
Toddling off across the square of the palm-trees, he disappeared,
and in a few minutes returned, followed by that official, bearing
the emblem of his office in the form of a massive key.
The great door opened and closed behind us, and we found ourselves
in a vast square hall, from whose dark marble floor six noble
pillars rose to meet the high vaulted roof.
Like the Cathedral, the Lonja was built of the warm, buff-hued
native stone, and the marble flooring was also of Majorcan origin,
for it was quarried in the mountains of the island. The materials
used in the construction were the same; but while the Cathedral
impresses by its solemn majesty of conception, the Lonja charms with
its beautiful simplicity of design, its inspiriting sense of light
and air. The four wide windows were partly boarded up, the light
entering only through the open carving at the tops. Yet the hall was
so well illuminated that it was easy to see every detail of the
pictures that covered a great portion of the walls.
The collection of pictures, though of no great importance, one
imagines might be better hung, better framed, and in some way
catalogued. Certain of the canvasses lacked frames. A soiled card
inscribed with the name of the artist was stuck in the frames of
others. One portion of the wall-space was covered by interesting old
paintings that had been removed from the antique church of San
Domingo. And a large modern picture by a well-known Spanish painter
attracted us both by the excellence of its workmanship and by the
peculiarity of its subject: a bride and bridegroom--the man old,
uninviting, and with strangely deformed feet; the woman young,
attractive, and evidently of a lower social position--were standing
before a brilliantly lit altar joining hands in marriage. On the
bride's left stood her peasant mother, proud almost to arrogance at
the wealthy marriage her pretty daughter was making. Behind were two
workmen brothers, whispering and giggling.
The satire of the artist's intention was revealed in the title, _En
el nombre del Padre, y del Higo, y del Espiritu Santo_, which was
conspicuously painted on the frame.
High on the wall over the door that opens on to the garden two
grotesque gargoyles look down on a finely sculptured bas-relief of
the Virgin and Child. Across the little enclosure with its
fruit-laden palm-tree, its tired-looking olive--how is it that
olives always seem to pine for mountain slopes?--and its aloes, is a
strikingly antique gate.
As the keeper of the keys pointed out, it was the original gate of
the mole of the ancient port, and when in the seventeenth century
the harbour was reconstructed, it was wisely deemed worthy of
preservation. Behind it is the antique Concilio del Mar, which is
now the Escuela Superior de Comercio.
Showing us a door leading to a staircase, the custodian suggested
that the view to be obtained from the roof of the Lonja was fine.
He did not attempt to join our climb, and when we had mounted the
eighty-two steps of the spiral stair we did not wonder that he had
refrained. But the sight from the path which extended round the four
sides of the square roof was wonderful. Each point of view held
fresh interest--whether it was the harbour with the shipping and the
shining sea beyond, or the grand Cathedral seen across the lively
Marina, or the eight-storey-high houses, whose upper-floor dwellings
opened to roof terraces or blossomed out in poultry-houses and
dove-cots. But best of all, I think, was the vista of the road
leading towards Santa Catalina, and the Terreno, and the Castle of
Bellver, behind which the sun was setting.
[Illustration: Second Class]
VI
THE FAIR AT INCA
Our first experience of the Majorcan railway system was a curious
and unexpected one.
Having a fancy to see Inca, a thriving town situated in the very
heart of the island, we called at Palma station one November day and
asked for a time-table. The one handed us--it was the latest
issued--bore the date of July, 1907. But even although it was well
over two years old there appeared to have been no alteration either
in the hours of departure or of arrival.
Learning that Thursday was the market-day at Inca, we got up before
sunrise on a Thursday morning and reached the station in good time
for the train that was timed to leave at 7.40. The _other_ train,
for only two trains a day leave Palma, was out of the question, as
it did not start until two o'clock.
We had imagined that the paucity of trains argued a corresponding
scarcity of travellers, but to our surprise the station was already
crowded with a pleasantly excited mob of people, all in gala dress.
The women had their mantillas or lace-embroidered _rebozillos_
fastened to the hair with little gold pins, and many wore long white
gloves reaching to the sleeves, which were decorated at the elbows
with a row of gold or silver buttons. The little shawls that are
always a feature of native full dress were of all colours and
materials, from silk with long fringes to richly-hued plush or
delicate light brocades.
The trains of Majorca resemble those of most other civilized
countries in providing first, second, and third-class carriages. The
first are cramped and stuffy. The second are inferior to some
old-fashioned uncushioned English third-class. The third closely
resemble cattle-trucks with benches running along the sides and down
the middle. They have no windows; leather curtains protect their
open sides.
We went second-class, as did the majority of our fellow-travellers.
Long before the hour of starting, every carriage, with the exception
of the firsts, which were almost empty, was packed full of
passengers, all talking at the pitch of their voices. But nothing
happened until quite forty minutes after the time fixed for
departure, when the engine gave a violent jerk, as though putting
all its strength into a superhuman effort, the women crossed
themselves devoutly, and the train moved slowly out of the station.
So slowly indeed, that three late-comers, arriving on the platform
after the train was in motion, not only succeeded in entering the
train but were able, by running forward, to secure places in the
front carriages.
Inca is separated from the capital by twenty miles of fertile
orchard land. The single line of rail cuts through great tracts of
country planted with fig-trees, with almonds, and with olives. In
many cases the ground underneath the trees was red and golden with
autumn tinted leaves of grape vines, or verdant with the green of
shooting corn.
As the moments passed, and the sun rose higher, the mist wreaths
that had lain about the plain dispersed; and the blue hills to the
north made noble background for the spreading plantations. Within
our crowded carriage all was good humour. Nobody seemed to find
anything to grumble at in the slow rate of progress.
An early stopping-place was Santa Maria. We had only come a few
miles, yet girls were waiting to sell nuts, and biscuits put up in
neat paper cylinders, to those of the travellers--and they were
many--who had already had time to be hungry; while an old woman
carrying a water-jar and tumbler attended, ready for the smallest
coin to supply the thirsty with water.
The little journey was hardly begun, and there seemed but small reason
to tarry at Santa Maria, yet the delay became so extended that the
passengers, still maintaining their perfect good humour, began
exchanging visits from one portion of the train to another. An old
gentleman clad in a complete suit of striped mustard-colour plush and
yellow elastic-sided boots called at our compartment to exchange
compliments with a comely elderly dame, who in conjunction with
handsome jewellery had her hair--which was in a pigtail--covered with
a gaily striped silk handkerchief.
So the minutes wore on. At intervals a warning bell rang, but nobody
accorded it the slightest attention, and wisely so, for nothing
happened. At length, with a joint-dislocating jerk, we again got
under-way, only to come to a dead stop a hundred yards further on.
The train, it was at length admitted, was too heavy for the motive
power. The empty first-class carriages were detached; that
accomplished, we actually progressed. The twenty miles were
ultimately covered, and we succeeded in reaching Inca, with its
picturesque row of windmills and grand setting of purple mountains,
only two hours late.
Joining the stream of people, we entered the town, to discover what
spectators less accustomed to crowds would long ago have
discovered--that by some lucky chance we had come to Inca on the
great day of its year--the annual _feria_. All the ways leading
towards the centre of the town were lined with empty vehicles and
up-tilted carts, and in the narrow streets the owners were
promenading.
The fair was largely a business matter. It presented few of the
elements of entertainment common to that of an English country town.
The only thing in the way of amusement that we saw was a
merry-go-round, and that was being quietly ignored.
One interesting feature was that each street held its own species of
merchandise. In one, clothing and brightly-hued foot-gear were sold.
Another was wholly given up to sweet stalls, whose principal article
was a species of white confection composed apparently of chopped
almonds and sugar. That it was good the myriads of bees that were
tasting its sweetness bore testimony. In yet another street we had
to walk between a long double row of women seated on rush-bottomed
chairs, each bearing in her lap an earthenware cooking-pot full of a
puzzling commodity that had something of the appearance of crimson
threads. It appeared to be the only commodity they had to offer, and
I own we never succeeded in discovering what it was.
The square in front of the principal church was the centre of
attraction for us. On one side the ground was covered with a fine
display of native ware. Jars, and plates, and pots, and vases, in
the greens and yellows and browns that look so tempting and are so
cheap. The touch of vermilion, artistically so valuable to the busy
scene, was given by the huge sacks bulging with scarlet and orange
sweet peppers that form such an important part of Majorcan food.
Two maimed beggars, the first we had seen in the island, were
hobbling about reaping a harvest; and, raised on a little platform,
a travelling dentist was extracting juvenile teeth free; to the
satisfaction of certain thrifty parents, and to the visible distress
of their offspring.
Just below the square was the cattle-market; and on its outskirts we
saw, for the first time, a peasant clad in the native male dress
that unfortunately has become so rare. The jolly old fellow wore the
extremely baggy blue cotton pantaloons, the short black jacket, and
wide-brimmed hat that make up so distinctive a costume. He even wore
the quaint black shoes that suit the costume, and that seemed a
blessed relief from the green and orange elastic-sided boots in
vogue.
[Illustration: A Corner of the Fair at Inca]
A threatened shower and an actual thirst gave excuse for seeking
refuge in a cafe. Most of those we glanced into were crowded with
peasants, and we hesitated about forcing our way in. Finding at last
one that looked more exclusive than the others, we entered and
seated ourselves at one of the little tables set under the
overhanging tissue-paper decorations.
The Boy and I wanted wine, the Man chose cognac. The active waiter
quickly served us with huge tumblers of red wine set in saucers; and
placing before the Man a bottle of brandy in which were immersed
spiky herbs, left him to help himself. The wine was rich and
fruity, the liqueur the Man declared delicious; and while the rain,
which was now falling in earnest, pattered down, we sipped and
watched the passing life of the street.
Just across the way, at the side entrance to a flourishing baker's
shop, two women were frying dough-nuts in a big pan of boiling oil.
The elder woman, scraping a segment of batter from the full basin at
her elbow, deftly twisted it round her finger, then threw it into
the oil, from which a minute later her assistant lifted it out with
a long-handled spoon, transformed into a crisp golden ring.
The shower had ceased, the sun was again shining out, and there was
much to see; so we paid for our drinks and departed.
"Fourpence!" said the Man, as he pocketed his change. "A penny each
for the wine and twopence for the liqueur! It's enough to drive one
to drink!"
The one drawback to the complete enjoyment of the fair was the mud.
The previous night had been wet, and the streets were inches deep in
it. It was a buff-coloured slime of persistently adhesive nature,
and not content with thickly coating one's shoes, it tried to drag
them off. To walk about in mud three inches deep is fatiguing, so we
decided to take the train that was due to leave Inca at one o'clock,
instead of waiting for that leaving at four.
It was a merciful fortune that guided us, for the one o'clock train
took three hours to cover its twenty miles. Yet the scenery, with
its grey-green olive plantations set against a background of
beautiful mountains and enlivened with quaintly attired
olive-gatherers, was so fine that we did not tire of feasting our
eyes upon it.
Our companions on the return journey were mainly men--Palma
merchants probably, who had visited the fair as buyers and were
anxious to return with the greatest possible expedition. When those
who were so adventurous as to wait until the later train would get
back to town, or whether they ever reached it at all, history does
not relate.
[Illustration: Where the Hills Meet the Plain, Esglayeta]
VII
VALLDEMOSA
The fertile plain that occupies the greater portion of the island of
Majorca is sheltered from cold winds by the range of mountains that
runs along the northern coast. The scenery on the farther side of
the mountains is of unusual grandeur, the tracts of precipitous
country bordering the sea between Valldemosa and Soller being
exceptionally lovely.
The district, which is almost entirely devoted to olive plantations,
is a scantily populated one. And as there are no _fondas_ for a
considerable distance, the Austrian Archduke Luis Salvador, who owns
much land on the northern coast, has turned a large farm-house on
his estate of Miramar into an _hospederia_, or free lodging-house,
for the use of travellers.
There are many _hospederias_ in Spain, but they are generally
attached to monasteries and intended for the use of pilgrims to some
shrine. That at Miramar is the only instance I know of one supported
by a private individual, and many sojourners from far lands like
ourselves must have felt grateful to the royal owner for the kindly
provision he has made for them.
Within the friendly walls of the Hospederia any sojourner can for
three nights find free accommodation, the Archduke providing
house-room, linen, service, and fuel. The apartments are always
ready, the guest need send no warning of his intended arrival. All
he requires to do is to supply himself with food sufficient for the
sustenance of his party throughout the visit, as there are no shops
within several miles of Miramar, and the servants at the Hospederia
are forbidden to sell to the guests.
Very early during our stay at Palma we had purposed journeying
northwards to see the places of whose wonders we had heard; but we
were so pleasantly interested in our new home and strange
environment that it was nearing the close of November before we felt
disposed to take the journey.
At stated times diligences run the twelve miles between Palma and
Valldemosa, and the charge is only sevenpence-halfpenny. But the
diligence goes no farther than Valldemosa, and that is three miles
distant from the Hospederia. So, when we had decided to go on the
Tuesday morning, we engaged Bartolome, a good-looking bachelor
charioteer, who stabled his carriage and pair of horses in Son
Espanolet, to drive us thither.
But Tuesday morning, when it came, brought a sudden change of
weather. A strong easterly wind was blowing, and the temperature,
for the first time since our arrival on these favoured isles, nearly
approached cold. Bartolome was warned that the journey was postponed
for a day at least, and we spent the hours of uncertainty in
grumbling at the weather, and in consuming the most perishable of
the stock of provisions we had laid in for the expedition.
Judging the Majorcan climate by our knowledge of that of other
countries, we were all secretly convinced that we had delayed too
long, that the weather had probably changed for the winter, and that
our little excursion might require to be postponed until spring.
But to our surprise and relief the succeeding morning proved calm
and sunny. Having been duly instructed, Bartolome drove up at ten
o'clock precisely, with a jingling of bells that I am convinced set
every feminine head in the Calle de Mas a-peer behind its discreetly
closed venetian shutters. In appearance Bartolome was the embodiment
of buoyant geniality. His black hair curled in rings about his
smiling face, and he had dressed for the occasion in a white suit, a
pink shirt, and a pair of bright yellow elastic-sided boots.
Bartolome's carriage, the sides of whose interior were decorated
with four antimacassars on each of which was embroidered a
flamboyant representation of a rampant steed, proved both roomy and
comfortable, and we were only three in number. Yet when we had got
packed in with our luggage, which included sketching materials as
well as comestibles, there was scarcely room to stir. Never before
had we realized what a cumbersome article food was: or calculated
the bulk of--say--the bread even so small a family will consume in
three days. And when you add to the loaves the meat and groceries,
the vegetables and fruit, necessary for three days' moderate
consumption, they will be found to occupy a surprisingly large
amount of space.
The first portion of the journey led through the broad, fertile
plain north of Palma, where plantations of almond, fig, and olive
succeed each other with scarcely a break--that wide expanse whose
fruitfulness has gained Majorca the title of the orchard of the
Mediterranean. Near where the hills meet the plain we passed the
village of Esglayeta, an attractive hamlet consisting of little more
than a church and a wayside _fonda_.
The noses of the horses had been pointing directly towards a
precipitous cleft in the range of mountains, and almost unexpectedly
we entered the valley that divided two great hills. As we drove on,
the winding road gradually ascended, until we found ourselves in the
midst of the mountains and within sight of the outlying portion of
lovely Valldemosa.
In his _Byways of Europe_ Bayard Taylor said: "Verily there is
nothing in all Europe so beautiful as Valldemosa." And indeed the
ancient town, rising on its heights amid still higher heights above
the valley that runs seawards, is strikingly beautiful.
It is only when taking Valldemosa in detail that one notices that
its people are not quite so handsome, that they lack the gracious
and light-hearted bearing of the inhabitants of Palma, that their
dress is poorer, and the streets more squalid. Perhaps the
difference in climate may account for the difference in appearance,
for Valldemosa stands high among the mountains, and its climate is
both colder and damper than that of Palma. The situation is supposed
to be extremely healthy. It was at Valldemosa, on the site
afterwards occupied by the Carthusian monastery, that in 1311 King
Sancho, who was afflicted with asthma, built a palace to which he
removed his Court, and from which he gave his hawking parties.
At the suggestion of Bartolome, we paused to visit the church
attached to the old monastery, which was shown us by an elderly
woman, who, unlike most of the country people, spoke excellent
Spanish and understood our efforts in that language.
Under her guidance we visited the chapel, a fine old treasure-house
of carved effigies of saints, of paintings, and of relics in glass
cases all carefully wrapped up and labelled. The colours of the
paintings that adorn the walls and ceiling, the work of two
Carthusian monks, are as vivid as though still wet from the brush.
And the remarkable altar-piece, with its life-size figures in wax,
is worth a special visit.
Walking through the cloisters of the Carthusian monastery, we passed
the doors of the cells, which are now used as dwelling-houses, and
it occurred to us to ask if our old woman knew in which of the
cells George Sand had passed her memorable winter in company with
her children and with Chopin, and if it would be possible for us to
see it.
Our guide appeared to be familiar with both questions. She had no
hesitation in answering them in the affirmative; and preceding us
briskly down the long, ascetic-looking corridor (that accorded so
ill with our notion of Madame Dudevant), knocked at the door
numbered 1.
"But if people are living in the house, will they not object? We
must not disturb them," we demurred.
Our guardian thrust aside our protest as trivial, and in truth it
was offered in a perfunctory spirit.
"No, no," she assured us. "The senor will be pleased. He is a nice
gentleman. He was the doctor of Valldemosa for thirty years, till he
retired. He will show you the house himself."
And indeed the senor, when he appeared, was graciousness itself.
Welcoming us after the Spanish fashion, he put his house and what it
contained at our disposal. In this case the courtesy proved more
than a form of words, for he personally conducted us over all his
domain.
First he showed us the terrace garden, from whose low boundary-wall,
as from a balcony, one could look over the scattered houses that
nestled among their laden orange-trees, towards the distant sea. The
sun was shining; the air was heavy with the perfume of the loquat
blossoms; a delicious languor lay over all. It was easy to imagine
George Sand leaning on that wall, whose base was so thickly fringed
with luxuriant maidenhair fern, revelling in the beauty of her
surroundings. But my thoughts and sympathy were most with the monks
who, on the suppression of the convents in 1835, were obliged to
leave their quiet cells and the gardens that must have been a
perpetual delight to them, and go elsewhere to subsist on the scant
pension of a franc a day.
[Illustration: Valldemosa]
Taking us indoors, the doctor showed us the living-rooms, five of
which looked out to the terrace-garden. The name of "cell"
suggests accommodation that is cramped and austere, but nothing
could have been more cheerful than these sunlit chambers.
In the large, airy _salon_, with its domed ceiling, one could easily
imagine both musician and novelist finding abundant space to work,
he with his "velvet fingers," as his companion christened them, she
with her facile pen. And in the quaint kitchen, with its range of
charcoal stoves and big, open fireplace, one could picture them
gathering on the nights of that cold winter.
It would have been impossible to find a more idyllic setting for a
romantic episode. Still, I must confess that doubts assailed me; for
in November, 1838, when writing to a friend, George Sand had said:--
"I have a cell, that is to say, three rooms and a
garden full of oranges and lemons, for thirty-five
francs a year, in the large monastery of Valldemosa."
And this house of the doctor's, with its spacious _salon_, its large
dining-room, its many sleeping-apartments? No, much though we
desired it, the descriptions hardly tallied. Then in her account of
the unusually severe winter Madame Dudevant wrote of the "eagles and
vultures that came down to feast on the poor sparrows that sheltered
in their pomegranate trees from the snow."
Now in the garden there was a _kake_ tree laden with ripe rose-red
fruit, and other trees, but no pomegranate. But then that was many
years past, and the trunk of the pomegranate-tree might long ago
have been burnt on that wide hearth in the kitchen.
Speaking of the matter to the good doctor, we found our uncertainty
shared. Throwing out his hands he said humorously:--
"Who knows? There is no record. It was _one_ of the cells. That much
is certain. And this was the house of the Superior. If not this
house, it was another. That is enough."
But as we descended the slope from the monastery we agreed that,
whether or not the great French _artistes_ ever lived within the
walls of that particular cell, there could be no question that they
had breathed the sweet air of these terrace-gardens, and had known
the enchantment of that wonderful panoramic view. And that made
their personalities very real to us.
Bartolome awaited us smiling, and, insinuating ourselves among our
medley of belongings, off we set along the three miles of road that
led to Miramar.
On the outskirts of Valldemosa we saw, for the first time in
Majorca, vines climbing over tall trees by the wayside, their grapes
in purple bunches suspended in profusion from the branches. The
effect was so beautiful that we almost regretted the more prosaic
vineyards near Palma, with the carefully trained vines that
resembled well-pruned blackberry bushes.
As we advanced, passing through a succession of olive plantations
that rose above us towards the grand craggy mountains and fell
beneath us to the blue sea, glimpses of which we caught over the
foliage, the beauty of the scene that gradually unfolded surpassed
all that we had yet seen.
The Man groaned a little, as during the next three days he was fated
to groan often, and for the same reason.
"This is _too_ grand," he said. "It's hopeless. One could never
paint it!"
Turning a bend of the road, Bartolome drew rein with a flourish
before a quaint dwelling by the wayside; and we realized that we had
reached the Hospederia.
"I say! We ought to have sent word we were coming. I hope the house
isn't full. I hope they'll have room for us," said the Boy, voicing
the sudden apprehension of us all. But so far from being crowded
with visitors, the Hospederia seemed totally deserted. The great
door was shut and, except for a vagrant cat and a clucking hen,
there was no sign of life about the place.
Shouting lustily for "Fernando," Bartolome jumped down and, running
to the door, knocked loudly. Receiving no reply, he did not stand
upon ceremony but, pushing open the door, went in, beckoning us to
follow.
Entering, we found ourselves in a large outer hall with a cobbled
floor and a long well-scrubbed table and benches. Following our
charioteer, who had opened an inner door, we went into a large
dimly-lit room which, when the window-shutters had been opened,
revealed itself as a long narrow dining-room of severely ascetic
appearance. Tables extended down its length, chairs with seats of
interwoven string stood round the walls.
"Look, senora!"
Running to a cupboard, Bartolome had thrown open the door,
disclosing shelves laden with china and crystal.
Again--"Look! senora."
Hastening to the opposite side of the room, he had opened the doors
of a big _armario_, and was pointing to piles of clean table-linen.
It was as though we had strayed into some enchanted castle where all
had been prepared for our coming by invisible hands. Going off to
explore further, we found our way into a snug kitchen. The whole of
one side was occupied by a brown-tiled charcoal stove, on which many
dinners could have been cooked simultaneously. The shelves were
laden with cooking-pots and pans, of every description; the walls
shone with an array of well-polished utensils. Over charcoal embers
a huge earthenware pot, that for its better preservation had been
encased in a strait-waistcoat of wire-netting, was slowly bubbling.
Essaying to mount the stair leading from the hall, we peeped into
closely shuttered apartments in which we could see the dim outlines
of beds. And what we saw assured us of one thing--that there were no
other guests at the Hospederia.
From the perfect order of the house, and the fact that the fire was
burning, it was clear that someone must be close at hand. But we
had come a long way, and in the meantime we were famishing.
Hastening to our aid, the ubiquitous Bartolome spread the table,
putting out plates and glasses, and finding wooden spoons and forks
in the drawer of a side-table. Opening our packets of sandwiches and
fruit, we invited him to join us.
We were all seated at table, busily eating, when a swift clatter of
feet sounded on the cobble stones of the outer hall; and a brisk
little brown woman ran into the room, voluble with apology for the
temporary absence of the keepers of the Hospederia. Netta, she
explained, was away. Fernando was working at the farm. In their
absence could she be of any service to our excellencies?
Reassured on that point, the lady--Catalina was her name--remained
to enliven our picnic lunch by rallying Bartolome, who was an old
acquaintance of hers, on his unparalleled effrontery in sitting down
to table with us.
"You have no right to eat with their excellencies," she said. "You
are only a coachman."
"But if he is a good coachman?" asked the Man.
"Ah, no, senor. He is not a good coachman. He is a bad coachman.
And, besides, he cannot spread a table. See! he has given you no
table-cloth, no napkins, when he knows the cupboard is full of them.
No, he is a very bad coachman indeed!"
When our scrap meal was finished, Catalina proceeded to show us our
sleeping accommodation. Unlocking a door that we had not tried, she
led us through a pleasant room with two beds, to one with two
windows--one facing the highroad, where Bartolome's carriage still
waited, the other affording a beautiful view of the rugged coast.
Catalina explained that these rooms were usually allotted to
foreigners such as ourselves, the less attractively situated being
reserved for natives of the island, who were at liberty to share the
Archduke's hospitality, although the Hospederia was originally
intended for the use of other travellers. A handsome new
dining-room in process of construction, though during our stay no
one was actually working at it, was also planned for the
accommodation of those from far countries, but to us the
appointments of the older building seemed peculiarly in keeping with
the quaint idea of the Hospederia.
The bedrooms were simply but sufficiently furnished. Each had two
single beds, half-a-dozen chairs, a plain wooden table, and a tripod
washstand holding the smallest basin and ewer we had seen outside
France. The roofs were raftered. All was the perfection of austere
cleanliness.
Before our inspection was ended Fernando, the host, a good-looking
man with the gracious deportment of an operatic tenor, had returned.
His grandmother had been the original housekeeper of the Hospederia.
On her death, at the age of ninety-nine, her office had descended
upon Fernando and his young wife Netta.
We spent the all too short November afternoon and evening in
exploring the slopes about Miramar, looking at the glorious views
that perpetually presented some yet more glorious aspect. The
Hospederia was over a thousand feet above the sea, to which the
ground fell precipitously. Above the house the land rose up and up
until it ended in towering crags. Northward stretched the
Mediterranean. Elsewhere the eye met nothing but range upon range of
mountains.
The extensive grounds of Miramar are well shaded with olive and
carob trees, but at every point that affords a specially good view
of some part of the exquisite scenery the Archduke has caused to be
erected a _mirador_, or walled enclosure, where one can sit in
safety and glory in the beauty of the surroundings.
From one of these we watched the after-glow of the setting sun
illumine distant peaks, bringing into prominence heights whose
existence we had scarcely realized.
The darkness, falling swiftly, surprised us while a good distance
from the Hospederia, and we had to find our way back by untried
paths. But the fascination of the place held us captive, and when
the moon began to peep out from among the clouds we could not remain
indoors, as more sensible folks would have done. Wrapping up a
little, for it was colder on the northern coast of the island than
at Palma, we went out, determined to reach a headland by the sea, on
which from above we had caught tantalizing glimpses of a shining
white temple.
Except from a _mirador_ the temple was not visible, and we wandered
by many devious ways before we again came in sight of it, perched
above the sea on a high rock that is reached by a stone bridge
thrown over a deep gully.
As we felt our way along, for the elusive moon was again behind a
cloud, all was silent, mysterious. Surely Miramar at nightfall in
winter is one of the most silent places on the earth. We felt as
though there was not a human being alive but ourselves.
Crossing the bridge timorously, we found ourselves confronting the
ghostly white chapel. When we had told Catalina of our desire to
visit it, she had given us keys, but they did not fit. And as we
proceeded to fumble with the lock, the silence was so intense that I
could almost have imagined that someone within was holding his
breath to listen. Had we knocked upon that closed door I had an
eerie conviction that the spectre of some long-dead monk would have
opened it.
But we did not knock. And the moon favouring us with a glimpse of
her illumining power, we walked round the base of the temple, which
is securely railed in, and watched the moon outline with silver
finger-tips each point and pinnacle of the hills and shimmer softly
on the sea.
When we returned to the Hospederia, Fernando had gone to fetch his
wife; and Catalina, who had been left in charge, bustled into the
dining-room to tell us that two _carabineros_ had come, and were
resting in the kitchen.
"Have they come after us?" cried the Man; and Catalina, who enjoyed
even the mildest of humour, wrinkled her brown face in delight.
The dining-room where we sat was large and dimly lit by oil lamps.
After the silence of those wooded slopes the prospect of even the
company of two _carabineros_ was alluring. So when I went into the
kitchen to cook the lamb cutlets and tomatoes that comprised our
modest supper, my men followed me.
[Illustration: Carabineros in the Kitchen]
The kitchen, which was the most picturesque part of the Hospederia,
was looking particularly snug and cosy. A fire of logs burned on the
open hearth, below the shining tin pans and the strings of red
peppers, and lit up the fine bronzed faces of the _carabineros_, who
sat close to its warmth.
They rose when we entered, to offer us their seats. One, spreading
his striped blanket on the low settle, invited the Man to share it;
and while I grilled the cutlets and Catalina washed dishes at the
sink, the men chatted as freely as their difference of language
would allow, the _carabineros_ talking of their long hours of
duty--for their patrol begins at five or six o'clock in the evening
and does not end until seven next morning--and of the constant watch
that has to be kept for smugglers on that lonely and seemingly
scarce accessible coast.
Leaving them to resume their night watch, we supped and went to bed,
to be roused in the early morning by voices. Netta, the
house-mistress, had returned, and thenceforward the lively Catalina
would relapse into the position of merely an obliging neighbour.
[Illustration: La Trinidad, Miramar]
VIII
MIRAMAR
When we went downstairs to breakfast Netta was setting the table;
setting it, too, after a fashion of her own which never varied, were
the meal breakfast, luncheon or dinner.
First she spread the cloth, whose lack at luncheon on the previous
day had so offended Catalina's sense of what was neat and proper.
Then she put before each place a big tumbler, a little tumbler, two
soup-plates, and a wooden spoon and fork.
Netta proved to be tall and nice-looking, with tragic dark eyes, and
a gravity of manner that was in striking contrast to her husband's
smiling bonhomie. She was an admirable housewife. We never caught
her at work; yet, without the slightest appearance of fuss and
flurry, she managed to keep everything the pink of perfection.
The weather was hardly promising. Rain had fallen in the night;
veils of mist smothered the crests of the near hills and completely
obliterated the more distant. But we were resolved to let nothing
short of an actual downpour keep us indoors. And as the Man wished
to sketch at Valldemosa, which had captivated us all on the previous
day, the Boy and I accompanied him thither. Perhaps it is unwise to
attempt to renew first impressions. Possibly the charm of Miramar
clouded our eyes to the undoubted beauty of Valldemosa. More likely
the fact that the sun only peeped out fitfully, and that the wind
was damp and the sky sullen, influenced our view: but somehow
Valldemosa seemed to have lost the glamour it cast over us when we
first saw it basking in the warm sunlight. Everybody seemed chilly,
and all the children looked as if they had colds in their noses.
Leaving the Man working at a water-colour of the old Carthusian
monastery from rising ground above a covered well, we set off with
the intention of augmenting our little stock of provisions from the
shops of the town.
The store we chanced upon sold every likely and unlikely commodity,
from green and orange boots to radishes. When we inquired where we
might find a butcher, the shop-mistress, with a majestic wave of her
hand, signed to us to follow her. And, walking in her footsteps, we
threaded our way through an apartment, which was partly kitchen and
partly an overflow stock chamber, into an inner room, where hung
garlands of black and yellow sausages and the carcasses of two
lambs.
This was the butcher's shop, she announced, and there was no beef,
only lamb. So perforce we added yet more cutlets to our diet, and
humbly craved bread. But the only loaves she had were so large that,
rejecting them, we went in search of a baker.
In the less important Majorcan towns, shops are difficult to find.
The fact that a tax is levied upon signs keeps all but the most
prominent vendors from exhibiting one. The room of an ordinary
house that opens directly to the street usually acts as the place of
business; and a cabbage, or a basket of striped haricot beans, set
casually on the doorstep, often serves to indicate the existence of
a general shop.
After a little searching we succeeded in finding a _panaderia_, but
the loaves of the baker, in place of being smaller than those of the
grocer (which sounds Ollendorffian), were so huge that they
resembled cartwheels, or, to be more exact, perambulator wheels,
baked of rye.
For a moment the choice lay between possible starvation and the
prospect of trundling the mammoth rye loaf up and down the three
miles of highway that lay between us and the Hospederia.
While we hesitated, the baker lady, and the half dozen or so of her
intimate friends who had followed us into the shop to see what the
foreigners would buy, regarded us interestedly. Then a compromise
suggested itself.
"Would it be possible to ask the senora to divide the loaf?"
"Yes--without doubt."
The complacent senora already had the large knife in her hand. So,
clutching the half of the still steaming rye loaf, we returned to
the Man, with whom we had arranged to share an open-air luncheon.
Before we had reached him, the mist that had been threatening to
swoop down upon us resolved itself into a shower. Taking advantage
of the near vicinity of the covered well, we boiled our tea-kettle
under the archway, and drank tea, to the surprise of the people who
were constantly coming to fill their water-jars.
Then, the sun consenting, rather sulkily, to peep out again, the Man
returned to his work, while the Boy and I, feeling no further
temptation to linger at Valldemosa, took up our section of the
cartwheel and set off for Miramar.
On the way, not far beyond the outskirts of the town, we caught
sight of a notice-board, which stated that a Museum of Mallorquin
antiquities might be seen in a house on the side of the road
nearest to the mountains. Following the path indicated, we found
ourselves, after a few minutes walking, in the courtyard of what had
evidently been a fine old country seat.
The doors stood open to the world. Except for a beautiful flock of
cream-coloured turkeys, the place seemed utterly untenanted. There
was no sign of humanity until the Boy woke the echoes by smiting
lustily on a cow-bell that hung outside the kitchen door.
Then a little sun-dried old woman popped her head out, and with a
scared face fled up a broad flight of steps that led from the
courtyard to the floor above.
She had gone to warn the custodian of the Museum; and that dame,
quickly appearing, invited us upstairs to see the collection.
The house, Son Moragues, she told us, was one of the many owned by
the Archduke on the different estates he had bought. He had never
used it as a residence, and merely kept it as a receptacle for the
specimens of typical Mallorquin manufactures, such as pottery,
models of baskets, furniture, etc., he was collecting.
The object that interested us perhaps more than any other exhibit
was a jar that had been salved from the sea in Palma Harbour.
Although a genuine antique it was of the shape in use to-day; and
its unrecorded period of immersion had left it encrusted with a
marvellous decoration of barnacles and shells.
What really delighted us most in the Museum were the views from the
balconies; especially those obtained from a great old _terras_ with
a sloping floor, where we stood in the brilliant sunshine and
watched the showers sweeping along the mountain tops and up the
valley.
Down below us was a thick hedge of prickly pear, the edges of the
fleshy leaves ruched with scarlet fruit. And beside us, as we leant
on the edge of the balcony, was a wire tray on which a quantity of
figs, gathered presumably from the trees in the field beneath, were
drying in the sun.
The quaint old garden, which we saw on the way out, had tall box
hedges and a spreading magnolia, and crumbling stone seats
surrounded the fountain, whose waters have long run dry.
In the evening I had gone to bed early, leaving the others to follow
their own devices, and was sleeping the sleep of the woman who had
been all day in the open air, when an insistent calling of my name
aroused me back to semi-consciousness, and I gradually gathered that
I must descend to open the door. The men, who had gone out walking
in the moonlight, had returned to find that, inadvertently, the
house door had been locked and barred against them.
Had my room been less accessible, or my sleep more profound, they
might have knocked and called in vain, for although it was hardly
nine o'clock, Fernando and Netta were deep in the slumber of the
agriculturist in some unknown roof-chamber of the tall old house.
Although so isolated in position, Miramar is intimately connected
with the romantic life-history of Ramon Lull--rake, recluse,
scholar, fanatic, martyr, saint--what you will.
The father of Ramon Lull--the name is variously spelt: Raymund Lully
in the English; Ramundo Lulio in the Spanish; and Ramon Lull in the
Mallorquin, which has a bad habit of chipping the ends off
words--was one of those brave young knights of Aragon who fought
with their King during his invasion and conquest of Majorca. When
that war had ended happily for all but the Moors, the parent Lull,
in company with the other nobles who had supported King Jaime the
Conquistador, was rewarded with an estate in Majorca. And there,
about six years later, his son Ramon was born.
During his earlier manhood Ramon gave little hint of what he was
ultimately to become. His behaviour was by no means sedate. Nay,
more, it is on record that his love affairs were so numerous as to
become a public scandal, which reached a climax on his riding on
horseback into church in pursuit of a devout lady whom he madly
adored.
The fatal illness of this lady, by awakening his conscience and
rousing him to a sense of sin, changed the current of his thoughts,
and after a period of self-accusation and contrition, he decided not
only to lead a better life, but to spend that life in the
reformation of others.
King Jaime, on being applied to, supplied the funds necessary for
the carrying out of his project, and Lull erected a college at
Miramar, where close by the house of the Archduke a fragment of the
original chapel is still to be seen. His scheme was to teach
thirteen monks Arabic, so that they could go forth as missionaries
among the infidels. And Miramar, one of the most secluded spots on
earth, as well as one of the most beautiful, he deemed a suitable
place for study.
But the scheme failed. Why, the chroniclers do not say. Perhaps the
students, being merely human, wearied of the restrictions of
existence in that seminary perched on the hill-side between the
mountains and the sea, and pined for company.
The project was abandoned. A later record speaks of King Sancho,
grandson of the Conquistador, visiting Miramar in quest of relief
from the asthma with which he was afflicted, and residing at the
Arabic College.
Lull, nothing daunted by the defection of his pupils, alone put into
execution his plan of carrying the truth into other lands. We hear
of his preaching Christ in Africa and being rewarded with stripes.
Then we are told of his travelling in the Holy Land. Later he
appears in Paris, in Egypt, and even in England, writing books and
teaching.
In spite of besetting dangers, Lull's life of study and propagandism
lasted beyond the ordinary term of man. When he was an octogenarian,
and probably weary of the struggle, he desired to quit the world in
a blaze of glory; and, as the best means of attaining his end,
returned to Africa, where earlier he had been received with
contumely and severely beaten. There Lull met the fate he coveted:
for continuing to preach openly and persistently, he was stoned to
death at Bugia in June, 1315.
Some Genoese disciples who had begged for his bruised and broken
body brought it tenderly back to his birthplace. We had seen the
spot of its interment in the beautiful church of San Francisco, at
Palma, a Gothic temple of the thirteenth century, that vies in
antiquity with the Cathedral. One of the chapels in the transept to
the left of the high altar gives sepulture to the aged martyr. The
effigy shown is that of an old man lying on his side, as though to
signify that his unwavering and indomitable spirit had at last
gained rest.
We had spoken tentatively of Lull to Fernando, and Fernando had not
only admitted a knowledge of the old-world frequenter of his slopes,
but had volunteered to take us to visit his cave, a sanctuary high
on the mountain-side above Miramar, where Lull was wont to go when
he felt the need of seclusion. And at ten next morning we were
waiting, expectant.
But at ten Fernando, just returned from his morning's work on the
farm, was at breakfast. So we went to the _mirador_, below the
Hospederia, and spent the minutes of waiting enjoying the view that,
no matter how often we saw it, always wore a different aspect.
This morning, though the sun was shining on the sea and on the
olives that covered the lower slopes, the higher peaks were obscured
by filmy scarves of mist, and scarcely perceptible wisps were
floating about the mountain sides, giving an air of mystery and
grandeur to the lofty heights.
Then Fernando appeared wiping his moustached lips, which already
held the inevitable cigarette. Under his guidance we moved along the
highroad until we came to a gate where a cross fixed to the post
betokened monastery ground. A sandalled monk passing by gave us
grave greeting. There the ascent began at once, the path zigzagging
about on the terraced slopes that were thickly planted with olives.
The undergrowth was bright with the vivid green foliage and
brilliant scarlet berries of the winter cherry.
Up and up we mounted, Fernando and the Boy walking lightly in
advance, we others lagging a little behind, until we felt like birds
seeking some mountain aerie; till looking down we saw nothing but a
steeply shelving forest of tree tops, or looking up caught a glimpse
of mist-obscured crags.
The path wound about along narrow ledges and up crazy, almost
obliterated steps, until with the suddenness of a surprise the track
branched off to a ledge on the right, and we saw, set in the face of
the solid rock, a little wicket gate.
It was so long since the gate had been opened that it necessitated a
strong effort on the part of Fernando's broad shoulders before it
would consent to open.
Within, the unexpected awaited us. Set in the wall of the cave
facing the door was an old bas-relief carving that had evidently
marked the place of the altar before which the saint had been wont
to worship. The passing of the centuries has gradually blurred the
outlines of the carving: still we could see the form of the Virgin
and Child, and the worshipping figure of an angel. Behind the group
was a background of palms.
The wall still held a faint trace of fresco, and from the side hung
the socket--in the shape of a bird--for an antique lamp.
There was something so attractive, and even homely, in the cave,
that we required no great effort of imagination to fancy Lull
choosing it as his hermitage, and escaping thither when he yearned
for a space to be free from the society of the thirteen monks who so
soon had tired of their task.
That raised ledge might have served for a couch; this stone seemed
the right height for a seat; a small window hewn in the side
admitted sufficient light did the recluse wish to study. In the wall
was a natural basin, which to this day, except when long-continued
drought has dried up all the watercourses, holds a supply of fresh
water.
It seemed to us that Lull had chosen an ideal place of seclusion in
the rock-dwelling set far up in the pure air, where no sound save
the twitter of bird or the far-off murmur of the sea could break the
solemnity of his thoughts.
Everything about the cave bespoke its antiquity. The trees that
fronted the entrance were hoary with age and fringed with lichen.
And on the hill-side above, amidst moss-grown trees and blooming
heath, a tall cross had been erected in memory of the recluse whose
haven it once had been.
There was yet another cave that Fernando had promised to show us;
one of worldly, not of religious uses this time. It was the place
where in not very remote ages smugglers concealed the contraband
goods that they had succeeded in landing on the coast below. So,
leaving the cell of Ramon Lull, we followed our guide, clambering
higher and yet higher, and speedily getting into the dim twilight of
forests that might have existed since the beginning of the world, so
venerable were they, so thickly mossed and festooned with grey-green
lichen.
The signs of foliage were of the scantiest. Many trees revealed no
more than half a dozen leaves set at the extreme tips of the
lichen-furred branches. And all about was a huddled waste of
stones--the debris that collects at the base of great mountains. In
these gloomy recesses where daylight never enters there was no
indication of life--no flutter of startled bird, not even a
scurrying beetle. All was still and weird.
On hastened the light-footed Fernando, and on we followed more
ponderously, marvelling how he knew his way where we could see no
trace of a path. Suddenly branching off to the right, over the rough
rocks, he preceded us to where, low down amongst a tumbled heap of
boulders, a slight crevice showed. Smiling, he glanced back at us,
then bent down and disappeared. Close on his heels the Boy followed.
And both had vanished off the face of the earth, leaving us gaping
at the mouth of the exaggerated rabbit burrow that had seemingly
swallowed them up. We, wisely, did not attempt to enter. The
prospect of a rough scramble did not tempt us.
On his return to the surface the Boy described the interior of the
cave as both wide and lofty. But I must confess the idea of the
smugglers conveying their illicit cargoes from the beach all that
distance up the steep mountain-side to store it in a cavern that was
on the way to nowhere seemed absurd. It assuredly was inaccessible.
And it spoke well for the vigilance of the carbineers that the
_contrabandistas_ could find no more convenient place of
concealment.
But had Majorca not been free from the bandit plague, what a
glorious place that would have been for brigands in which to keep
prisoned the rich foreigners they were holding for ransom!
In some such unattainable holes and crannies of the heights must the
mountain Moors have existed during the two years that passed before
their chief surrendered to the Conquistador.
Just beyond the smugglers' cave were the fragmentary remains of a
monastery, so old and long deserted that the lichen-fringed trees
had rooted as deeply within the ruined walls of its chambers as
without in the forest.
Still further we went, keeping close on the heels of our untiring
leader, for the track sloped downwards now and the going was easier.
Once more we were in the region of trees that seemed alive, not
merely fossilized and moss-grown.
Like a born guide, Fernando had reserved the most charming part of
the excursion to the last. All unexpectedly he brought us to where,
on an outjutting pinnacle of rock, the Archduke had erected a
chapel. From the stone seats placed round its base we had an
enchanting and yet more comprehensive view than ever before of the
scene that, from whatever point we chanced to see it, never failed
to give us a fresh thrill of delight.
And wasn't I glad to sit down!
We had felt so much at home at the Hospederia and so enthralled with
this new world of steeps and silences that, when the last of our
three days had come, we felt sincerely sorry to leave it.
In torrid summer weather, when the southern plains of the island lie
baking in the sun, it would be impossible to imagine a more charming
way of escape from the heat than to rest under the shades of leafy
Miramar, or to sit at ease in one of the cunningly placed
_miradors_ "looking lazy at the sea" and the everlasting hills.
But the law is inexorable. When his three days' free lodging has
come to an end each guest must move on to make room for others. A
wise provision; for, had it not been so ruled, the first travellers
who filled these beds and ate at these tables would never have left
the Hospederia--they would have been there yet!
Our next stopping-place was to be Soller, a town that is envalleyed
amid the highest mountains in the island. Soller is ten miles
distant from Miramar, and the question was how we were to get
transported thither. At the Hospederia we were quite out of the way
of traffic. Not even a diligence lumbered by.
Fernando, coming to our rescue, offered to negotiate with a farmer
for the use of a cart. It was the ploughing season, the busiest time
of the year for both men and mules, but he succeeded in arranging
that we could have the loan of a conveyance of some kind at two
o'clock that afternoon for ten pesetas.
The morning had been wet. Happily not with the drenching, torrential
rain of these latitudes, but with an insinuating moisture
reminiscent of the Scottish Highlands. Disregarding it, we made the
most of the few hours at our disposal, seeking, and finding, fresh
walks and wonders in our surroundings.
One thing I remember that specially interested us in the terraced
olive plantations of Miramar, was the method of throwing a little
stone bridge from one walled terrace to another across the bed of
the river. There was no water in the channel, the bed was dry and
mossy. As we looked up at the succession of bridgelets, each flanked
on either side by short flights of stone steps, it seemed to typify
the extreme of the elaborate and painstaking system of culture that
prevails all over the island.
With appetites sharpened by the famed air of Miramar we had lunched
off goats' milk, the toasted remains of our half cartwheel of rye
bread, and something I had confidently expected would prove to be
an omelet, but which turned out to be something entirely different.
It was eatable, however, even delectable, and we devoured it to the
last yellow fragment, then waited the arrival of our carriage.
It came at last. And as it drew up in front of the Hospederia we
looked first at it, then at each other, in silent dismay.
In place of the roomy farm cart drawn by mules that we had expected
to see, the conveyance was one of the gaily painted, two-wheeled
cockleshells in which Majorcan farmers go a-junketing. It would have
been an admirable vehicle for two people. Viewed as a means of
carrying four with luggage, it at first sight seemed absolutely
impracticable.
"Oh, it's all right; I'll walk," said the Boy, regardless of the
fact that ten long miles of wet road lay between us and the Hotel
Marina at Soller.
Our luggage was as little as a party of three could be expected to
require during a week's expedition, comprising as it did only one
large portmanteau, a suit-case, some sketching materials, and a
couple of rugs. Yet compared with the size of the conveyance it
appeared of enormous dimensions.
Nothing daunted by the overwhelming bulk of his prospective load,
the driver put the suit-case under the seat, propped the big
portmanteau up on it, and invited me to get in. That done, allowing
a modicum of space for himself, the carriage was full.
Obviously that plan would not do. Again we looked at each other in
despair. Fortunately the driver was a man of resource. Hauling out
the big bag, he wrapped it in a sail-like canvas cover, and,
producing fragments of rope from all his pockets, proceeded to tie
it on at the back of the cart. Running into the house, Netta brought
more rope for its better security. With the load hanging behind, it
seemed as though the tiny vehicle were already overweighted; but its
capacity for endurance proved greater than we anticipated. The Man
got in, the Boy got in, the driver also mounted. All three were
jammed into a narrow seat for two. I was squeezed in somewhere at
the back, and at last our journey began.
As we drove on the feeling of insecurity lessened; we forgot to
expect the cart to tip up. Our mule proved himself a good goer, and
we early learned to adapt ourselves to conditions--to lean forwards
going uphill, to incline backwards when the way led downwards.
Though the mist still blurred the mountains the coast scenery was
magnificent. The road, which lay half-way between sea and
mountain-top, was bordered on either side by olive plantations.
About three miles from the Hospederia it curved inwards into the
most beautiful valley I had ever seen.
[Illustration: A Tight Fit]
Houses that looked like nests, so thickly were they surrounded by
luxuriant foliage, were scattered about the lower parts of the hills
that on three sides rose steeply; on the fourth the land declined
gently to the Mediterranean.
Here there were no jealous walls to hedge in the gardens. Oranges,
lemons, and figs in full fruitage overhung the highway. Tall palms
rose overhead, and down by a fountain women were washing. It was the
village of Deya, a sleepy nest seven miles from even a diligence,
but, even seen through a blur of rain, a place of exquisite beauty.
"We must come back here."
"Yes, we'll come back----"
"And stay a month," we agreed, as we had done about so many charming
spots that we had got just a glimpse of, and as we were fated to do
about so many more before our sojourn in these lovely isles came to
a close.
We would gladly have lingered to explore the beauties of Deya, but
the delay at starting had already encroached on the November
afternoon, and the greater portion of our journey was yet to come.
So the men, who had got down to walk through the village, remounted,
and once more, huddled up together, off we joggled, out of the
lovely valley and along a cliff-road where, among the grey-green
olive-trees, girls in skirts of vivid scarlet were gathering the
fallen fruit.
It was five o'clock and dusk was already falling when we descended
the zigzag road leading into Soller and, passing a picturesque old
cross, turned into a modern-looking street planted on either side
with trees.
"What I want to see now," I said, deliberately shutting my eyes to
the scenery, "is a hotel with electric light, and a good fire, and
German waiters, and French cookery."
"Don't be hateful," retorted the Boy. "But it doesn't matter; you
won't see it. My only fear is that they won't be able to take us
in."
The rain, which was now falling more heavily, had sent the townsfolk
indoors. The only wayfarer in sight was a venerable gentleman who,
as he sat astride a panniered donkey, protected himself from the
rain with a large umbrella.
Turning with a final jolt, we drew up in front of the Hotel Marina,
whose wide glass doors opened hospitably to receive us.
There was no question of lack of room, fortunately, but the
dinner-hour was yet two hours ahead, and even the satisfaction
derived from the omelet (which wasn't really an omelet) was already
a vague memory. But we are people of resource. While I boiled the
unfailing tea-kettle the men foraged, returning with provender in
the shape of crisply toasted _bizcochos_ and _cocas_, and we had a
cosy tea that enabled us to possess our bodies in patience until the
dinner-hour.
The waiter who served us was German, the cookery revealed more than
a suspicion of French influence, the electric light was brilliant,
and there was a cheery fire. But even the Boy did not complain.
IX
SOLLER
Though a longer acquaintance reveals many charming and wholly
Majorcan characteristics, at first sight Soller resembles a Swiss
town, so closely do the high mountains encircle it. The likeness is
emphasized when, as occasionally happens in winter, the double crest
of the Puig Major is tipped with snow.
With the exception of Palma, Soller was the only Balearic town in
which we had slept. Half unconsciously we found ourselves putting
them in comparison, to discover that while each is, after its own
fashion, delightful, they are entirely dissimilar.
Palma, "compactly built together," stands, crowded a little, within
its city walls, its feet lapped by the sea, a fertile plain behind
it, while Soller stretches itself at ease among its hills, with
abundant elbow-room, in a fruitful orange grove. Water is a precious
thing in Palma, where drinking-water in quaint Moorish stone jars is
hawked through the streets, while a striking and refreshing feature
of Soller is the abundance of running water. It flowed--a little
sluggishly perhaps, for the rains had not yet come--over the stony
bed of the _torrente_; it gushed unchecked from the street
fountains; it ran along cunningly contrived stone conduits and
turned mills.
[Illustration: Soller]
There are no rivers in Majorca. The beds of the _torrentes_ that
ought to be rivers are often so dry that they resemble rough
sun-baked roads. It was so many weeks since we had seen even a
thread of running water that the sound of its flow was music in our
ears. As a full and free supply of pure water is essential to the
well-being of a town, one easily understands how Soller has the
advantage of Palma in health conditions. The absorbent soil of
Soller ensures freedom from rheumatism, and the old people remain
hale and hearty to the close of lives that in many cases come within
nodding distance of a century.
Perhaps it was owing to the absence of the military, or the want of
a railway--though Soller has one in the making--or of the close
vicinity of a port, but to our cursory view Soller appeared less
gay, and its people seemed to lack the irresponsible smiling
light-heartedness of Palma folks.
There were architectural differences also. To enter one of the
better-class houses in the larger city one crosses a _patio_, or
open courtyard, and having ascended a stair, knocks at a door; while
in Soller one steps directly from the street into a large hall, on
either side of which, close to the wall, are set a long row of
chairs all of similar design. Here visitors are received, and, as
far as we could judge, penetrate no further.
Soller has few of the flat roof-tops or windows that are so
prominent a feature of the old Moorish capital, but Soller has more
chimneys; in the stillness of early morning the faint blue haze of
wood fires overhangs the town.
Our first day at Soller opened dull and grey. Much rain had fallen
in the night. The streets were damp, the mountains mist-shrouded.
The Boy and I felt depressed and cross. The Man, who had already
discerned picturesque possibilities in the unique situation of the
place, put a sketch-book in his pocket and went off in search of a
typical subject. The Boy and I prowled about the narrow streets,
allowing ourselves to be annoyed at everything--at the mud, at the
Sunday crowds, and at the way they stared at us.
In the square before the church was a busy little market. At the
corner of the square, near where one gets a lovely view of the
_torrente_ overhung by the balconies of crooked old houses, some of
the ramshackle vehicles that convey marketers to and from the port
of Soller were waiting.
"Let's go and have a look at the port," proposed the Boy. "Those
people look at us as if we were wild beasts. And it will be better
than hanging about here in the mud."
The shower that had been threatening all the morning was beginning
to fall, so I agreed. Selecting the coach that seemed on the point
of starting, we took our seats. A young couple, an old couple, and
half a dozen market baskets overflowing with greenstuff, shared the
interior with us. Three more people and several more baskets mounted
to the box, and, just as the rain began to patter heavily on the
canvas roof, we drove off, glad to have secured the temporary
shelter.
The way from Soller to its port seems to lie through an orange
grove, so closely is it flanked on either side with gardens full of
the shining leaves and golden fruit. It was sad to learn that a
blight had attacked the crop in the lower part of the valley, and to
see in one orchard a heap of trees, plucked up by the roots with the
fruit still thick on the branches, waiting to be burnt.
As we drove slowly along we met many country people townwards bent
to mass or market. Long usage in sunshine and shadow had streaked
the original hue of their great cotton umbrellas with broad lines of
lighter tint--lines that until one guessed the cause looked like
elaborately decorative stripes.
By the time we had reached the entrance to the landlocked harbour
the rain had ceased. Fitful gleams of sunshine broke through the
clouds, and the air was soft and pleasant.
Except from one point of view the natural harbour resembled a quiet
inland lake. There was no sign of the near proximity of the sea. To
the left rose a bold headland crowned by a lighthouse. To the right
was a long sweep of bay lined at the farther end by a row of houses,
before which small craft lay at anchor. Swart fishermen in red caps
and yellow boots lounged by the doors of the cafes.
Just beyond the houses the steamer _Villa de Soller_, that makes
periodical trips between the port, Barcelona and Cette, was loading
boxes of the oranges for which the district is famed. Farther on was
a second lighthouse.
Climbing the steps that rose steeply between the two rows of houses,
we reached the summit of the rocky promontory. Rusty cannon, their
work long over, lay at rest in front of the old chapel that crowns
the eminence. Before us lay the placid land-encircled sheet of
water, behind us was a wall. Glancing over, we discovered, to our
surprise and pleasure, that instead of the country landscape we had
somehow expected to see, the ground fell sheer down to where the
purple-blue Mediterranean ceaselessly surged beneath.
The unexpected transition from the peaceful inland lake surrounded
by mist-flecked mountains to a precipitous coast was curiously
interesting. A moment earlier, with the moisture-laden air blowing
softly in our faces, we could have imagined ourselves in the heart
of the Scots Highlands. Now, by the mere turning of a head, we were
gazing across a great tideless sea.
A capacious coach, in which we chanced to be the only passengers,
conveyed us back to Soller and deposited us at the door of the Hotel
Marina, where the Man, who had spent the morning sketching on a
mountain-slope, was waiting to join us at luncheon.
The town was busy when, later in the day, we made a tour of
inspection, finding fresh interest at every turn. A row of bananas
rich in pod, a group of quaint old-world houses, a great palm
rearing its stately head, its thick clusters of orange-red fruit
stems heavily beaded with shining yellow fruit.
There was leisure in the air. It was evidently the visiting hour. In
the entrance halls, in full view of the passing public, comely dames
sat chatting all in a row, like the pretty maids in the garden of
Mary-Mary-Quite-Contrary.
To us it always seemed odd to see the gossipers seated side by side
in a formal line--a position that one would imagine was not
conducive to the exchange of confidences.
The suggestion of French influence in the architecture of certain of
the newer houses was explained by the fact that when natives of
Soller leave the island to seek their fortune they rarely go further
than France--an easy journey with the _Villa de Soller_ sailing at
frequent intervals from the port to Cette. And when the exiles
return--as they invariably do, for the emigrant Majorcan's sole
desire is to make money that he may settle in his own country--they
naturally import some of the ideas and tastes of the nation with
which they have sojourned.
French influence, too, was noticeable in the way the women dressed
their hair. In many instances, particularly among the younger women,
the pigtail and the _rebozillo_, or head-handkerchief, had given
place to an elaborately dressed coiffure.
All night the full moon had illumined a sleepy world. When I looked
out at six o'clock it was still visible, though the light of the
hidden sun was already flushing with roseate tints the highest
mountain-tops. Over the valley the azure smoke of wood fires lay
softly, and the sweet, sickly fragrance of steaming chocolate was in
the air.
The valley was still partly in shadow when after breakfast the Man
went out to resume work. Leaving the Boy to his own devices, I went
with him.
The country immediately surrounding Soller is so full of roads all
beautiful, and paths all picturesque, that it is often difficult,
even for those who know the district well, to find the way they look
for. After a little winding in and out of the twisted streets we
came upon the expected road--a track leading upwards towards the
olive terraces.
From the steep slope where we sat it was curious to watch the
progress of the sun as it rose over the mountain-tops to note how,
as it climbed higher, the shadows shortened, the moist streets
dried, the chill vanished from the atmosphere, and new shadows crept
over the sunlit sides of the surrounding hills.
Beneath us ran the _torrente_, and from the roads on either side of
its banks came the sound of wayfarers entering or leaving the town.
The air was full of cheerful sounds, of the rattle of wheels, or the
tinkle of bells and the bleat of lambs as a flock was driven by. The
atmosphere was so clear that we caught the swift musical note of a
church clock, and the sound of a gunshot reverberated among the
hills like a peal of thunder.
The few passers-by gave us kindly greeting. Two old women returning
from market, a bevy of young girls on their way to gather the fallen
olives, an old couple trotting briskly beside their panniered
donkey--all had time to smile and wish us "Good-day."
As the sun became stronger I rose and wandered on, up the steep,
cobbled road, past the gardens where the oranges hung golden,
looking for wild flowers. Even in the days of late November one
rarely looks in vain for wild flowers in Majorca; and this morning,
strolling along by the runnels of water, where the delicate
maidenhair fern grew in profusion, I saw twining about the ivy
berries in the hedge a lovely creeper that was new to me.
Set at regular intervals on a slender brown stem, it bore clusters
of glossy green foliage and drooping florets and buds. The blossoms,
which had four petals, were cream-hued and flecked inside with
crimson. It was a dainty and distinctive trailer. Even in its
natural state it was difficult to imagine a more graceful wreath. A
passer-by of whom I asked its name called it _Sylvestris montana_,
and volunteered the information that, though it luxuriated on dry
walls, no one could succeed in inducing it to grow in gardens.
Following the path as it wound about the side of the hill, I found
myself by easy stages rising high amid the olive terraces. There
were silver-white olives beneath me, silver-white olives above me.
The voices of the invisible gatherers mingled harmoniously with the
music of the running water. A soothing sense of peace lay over all.
I think it was then that I fell in love with Soller.
There are places that at first sight you are entranced with, and in
two days find you have exhausted. Soller is decidedly not one of
these. At the close of the third day of our stay in the
hill-encradled town we felt as though we had hardly yet had more
than a glimpse of its beauties, so many and varied are they. It is
said that you can stay at Soller for two months and go for a
different walk every day--and I believe it.
From the first waking moments, when one could see the rising sun
illumine the hill-tops, until, with its sinking, the grand crest of
the Puig Mayor--the Greater Peak--was garbed in celestial glory, the
day was a succession of artistic delights.
Soller had for us an added charm in the companionship of congenial
fellow-visitors--an English lady who appreciates the beauty of the
place and the homely, good qualities of its people so highly that
she spends long periods there, and an enthusiastic young artist from
the Argentine who, with the world to choose from, elects to paint at
Soller.
Under their guidance we had driven to Biniaraix and, alighting,
mounted the _Barranco_--a wonderful path by which the peasant
proprietors reach the olive-trees that their untiring care in the
preparation of the stony soil and their skill in husbandry have
persuaded to grow on every possible--and, one might almost add,
impossible--ledge of the rocky steeps.
The Barranco, which was like a series of low, broad steps, zigzagged
between the mountains like some eccentric, never-ending staircase.
As we went up and up we paused often to look down to where, deep in
the valley, Soller lay embowered in its orange gardens. And while we
climbed we marvelled at the ceaseless industry of a race that is
willing to expend so much time and toil to reap so small a return.
On the following afternoon we drove to Fornalutx, a little antique
town three miles from Soller. Fornalutx is the point from which
expeditions start to climb the Puig Mayor.
The little town, which is built from the warm, amber-brown stone of
the hill-side on which it perches, is very old. There does not seem
to be a yard of straight street within its bounds. The houses are
set down pell-mell, anyhow and anywhere. A delightful lack of
uniformity reigns supreme. An orange orchard pokes itself in here, a
vine trellis projects there, a flight of steps interjects its
crooked way at every corner.
And it is all pictures!
The Painter, who knew the place, reflecting our pleasure, hurried us
on to see a good subject, and another good subject, and yet another.
As we passed up a quaint side street the tinkle of mandolines fell
gratefully on our ears, and we paused before the open doorway from
which the sound issued. Green branches and tissue-paper frills
decorated the entrance; within, some sort of merrymaking was in
progress.
[Illustration: The Mandoline Player]
A group of pinafored urchins who were hanging about outside told us
that it was the _fiesta_ of the master of the house.
It was rude, inquisitive, and wholly inexcusable, of course, but,
incited thereto by curiosity, we drew nearer and nearer until we
could see into the room which opened directly from the street, and
wherein a young girl and a grey-haired man were seated, mandolines
on knees, playing a duet. They performed without music but in
perfect harmony.
The girl, who was dark-eyed and pretty, was attired gaily in honour
of the festivity. She wore a red skirt, a pale-green bodice, and an
elaborately embroidered white apron. Blue ribbons adorned her
well-oiled hair, silver bracelets and rings decorated her slender
wrists and skilful fingers. The man was evidently her father. In the
background we got an impression of guests and of a presiding
matronly presence.
With a final flourish the melody ceased.
"Bravo!" we cried, and clapped our hands.
It was no longer possible to ignore the presence of the impertinent
foreigners. Indeed, it almost seemed as though the sociable
Majorcans welcomed the opportunity of recognizing our uninvited
appearance. For, as we turned to go, the mistress of the house
hurried out, a hastily vacated chair in either hand, to urge us to
enter, and would take no refusal.
Within, the guests had rearranged themselves. Retiring further into
the room, they had left space for us. It would have been
discourteous to reject the hospitality so unaffectedly offered.
Our little party was soon grouped inside the doorway, and the
father, whose _fiesta_ it was, laying aside his mandoline, seated
himself at an old piano, and the concert began afresh, the daughter
playing the mandoline to her father's accompaniment on the venerable
instrument. The company, which included two priests, smoked as it
listened appreciatively.
On the centre table was a liqueur-stand, two decanters of red wine,
and a large round dish holding a giant _enciamada_. When the music
ended and we rose to go, the hostess advanced carrying the
liqueur-stand, and, doing the honours with an ease of manner and
dignity of bearing that might have adorned any social rank, she
insisted on pouring out a little glass of _aniset_ for each of us.
Having drunk to the health of the hero of the _fiesta_, we made our
farewells and departed, delighted with this chance glimpse of placid
and happy home-life, and wondering what manner of reception a party
of curious intrusive foreigners who disturbed the peace of a family
gathering would have met in our own conservative country.
That afternoon at Fornalutx was fated to be one of those that stand
clearly out in the memory, not because of any special adventure or
of any great occurrence, but simply because it held a succession of
captivating little incidents, of happy chances.
Passing down a narrow street of steps we came upon an old house
whose wide outer court tempted us to enter. Exploring, we found
ourselves in an olive oil factory. In the inner chamber a patient
mule, his eyes blindfolded by having miniature straw baskets tied
over them, was walking sedately round, supplying the force that
crushed the olives, and from the press the oil was gushing in
streams that went to fill the vats underneath the floor.
On the outside wall of the post office a caged bird was singing
cheerily. Next door was the prison, but that cage was empty. The
barred window of its cell opened breast-high on the street, but
spiders had, undisturbed, woven webs across its bars, and the key
stood in the door. Evidently malefactors are scarce in the quaint
hill-town.
Leaving the crooked streets, we strolled up the side of the
_torrente_, which flowed amidst orange orchards and by the sides of
picturesque houses. Pomegranate-trees, their dainty foliage flecked
with autumnal gold, had rooted in the high banks by the water, and
the unplucked rose-red fruit had already supplied many a luxurious
meal for the birds. Were I a bird I would elect to build my nest at
Fornalutx, for there I would be sure to find an abundance of good
food. Figs bursting with ripeness hung on the trees, and all around
were oranges, and vines, and yet more oranges.
Far up the precipitous hill-path, at a point so high that it
afforded a glorious view of Soller, we came upon a farm-house known
to our friends.
The occupants, greeting us kindly, took us into the most curious
kitchen imaginable. Goatskins covered the ceiling, and in the centre
was a place where seats encircled a charcoal brazier--a Majorcan
"cosy corner," where the household could sit and snugly toast their
toes, when storms blew snell about the mountains and rain obscured
the valley.
The garden space in front of the farm-house had been turned into a
great bower by a huge vine that, trained along a trellis, cast over
it a pleasant shade.
[Illustration: At Fornalutx]
It was late in the season--the last day of November--yet a few
glorious clusters of grapes, the berries all golden and pink and
wearing a bloom unmarred by touch of hand, hung heavy from its
branches. Here another instance of native generosity awaited us, for
the housewife, resolutely refusing recompense, sent us away laden
with bunches. As we descended to where the carriage waited we must
have presented something of the appearance of the returning spies
that Moses had sent out to view the land of Canaan.
The sun had set when we reached Fornalutx. Looking up from the
crooked street towards the hills we saw the peak of the Puig Mayor
stand out against the darkening eastern sky, sublime, magnificent,
bathed in a flood of roseate light. It was a fitting climax to a day
of quiet delights.
We had entered Soller wet and weary on Saturday night, knowing no
one within many miles. When, on Wednesday afternoon, the diligence
bound for Palma called at the Marina to pick us up, people of four
different nationalities assembled round the coach door to bid us
"God-speed."
We would fain have lingered amid the oranges and palms of Soller,
but time was flying and we had much to see elsewhere.
The diligence was full--so full that there would hardly have been
space for an added thimble. It was our first experience of a
Majorcan diligence, and we were interested to see how pleasantly the
already closely packed passengers squeezed together to make room for
new-comers, and to note how quietly they all sat, without fidgeting,
with scarcely a change of position, during a drive that lasted over
four hours.
The window in front and those at the sides were shut, and remained
so throughout the journey. Fortunately our seats were by the door,
and through its big window, which we kept open, we had a splendid
view.
The highroad from Soller to Palma is, I verily believe, one of the
most curious ever made. Immediately after leaving the town it has to
ascend 1,500 feet, which exploit it accomplishes by zigzagging at
acute angles to the summit. That done, it zigzags down the other
side.
The progress uphill was necessarily slow, so slow indeed, that the
driver, who had traversed that road daily for thirty years, left his
sure-footed mules to guide themselves, and trotted along behind the
coach smoking the eternal cigarette. And, while we revelled in the
ever-varying views afforded by the constant change of direction, our
fellow travellers gently dozed, with the exception of a round-eyed
little girl, who, oppressed by the glory of her first hat and the
excitement of her first journey, kept wide-awake.
Up we went, every moment revealing some fresh effect of light and
shadow in the enchanting mountains, past where the embryonic
workings of the new light railway scarred the hillside. Up we went
and up, catching little glimpses of the town nestling far beneath in
its cradle of mountains, and seeing the last flash of sunset
illumine their crests. As we mounted slowly the somnolence of our
fellow passengers became more profound, and a portly father who was
seated beside the little girl, to her evident alarm, lurched farther
and farther in her direction, threatening altogether to efface her.
The Man was on the point of going to the rescue, but the coach
having reached the old carven cross that marks the summit, a sudden
and vivifying change came over our manner of progress. The driver
remounted the box beside the two motionless old women, whose
black-shrouded figures we had seen silhouetted against the light,
and off we set, at a pace that atoned for our crawl uphill.
The more rapid motion wrought a transformation on our companions.
All the slumberers awoke. The portly gentleman, simultaneously
opening eyes and mouth, gazed down in astonishment at the child, as
though during his doze she had materialized out of nothing. Lively
expressions lit up the blank faces. The little old man in the corner
began softly chanting one of the quaint native songs, that to me
always sound like improvisations.
It was already dusk when we stopped to change our three hardy mules
at a wayside _fonda_: and the lights of Palma were sparkling through
the December darkness when we drew up at the city gate for the
_consumero's_ inspection.
During our days of absence the gay little city seemed to have
decided that winter had come. The soldiers had donned their heavy
coats, and men were going about muffled in great cloaks: but leaves
were still thick on the plane-trees in the Borne, and to us the air
seemed still soft and pleasant.
A few minutes later we were entering the Casa Tranquila with that
feeling of absolute contentment that return to one's own home alone
can afford.
[Illustration: Son Mas, Andraitx]
X
ANDRAITX
A happy fortune more than good guiding led us to Andraitx. The Boy,
painting at the port of Palma had seen the diligence, stuffed within
with country folks and top-heavy without with their bundles, start
with a gay jingle of bells for that little-known town, and was
seized with a desire to visit it.
Somewhat precipitately we engaged our seats in the following day's
coach, and then proceeded to make inquiries about the place. Nobody,
it seemed, had a good word to say of it, perhaps because no one went
there. Baedeker scorned even to mention its name. There was only an
inferior _fonda_, one informant said. There was no _fonda_ at all,
amended another.
The diligence left Palma at two o'clock, and the fee for the 30
kilometros--over 20 miles--was two pesetas. Taking only a light
suit-case, we locked the doors of the Casa Tranquila that glorious
December afternoon, and walking down, reached in good time the
little back-street cafe whence the coach started.
Several passengers were already in waiting--a pleasant-faced old man
and his comely wife in native dress, sundry peasant women muffled in
shawls, one or two men whom the mistress of the cafe was serving
with lunch. A little pile of luggage--bundles tied in brilliant
kerchiefs, and market baskets--littered the floor. As we waited,
more passengers arrived and more. We were glad our places had been
secured.
At five minutes before two the mail-bag appeared; and at ten minutes
past, the diligence rattled down the narrow cobbled street and
pulled up at the door of the cafe. It was a cumbrous and yet cramped
vehicle lined with clean striped cotton.
The slender mail-bag having been deposited in a hollow seat, the Man
and I hopped briskly in and secured the places on either side of the
door, which had a wide window, arguing away our consciences'
accusation of selfishness by the excuse that we were probably the
only passengers to whom the scenery would be new. Then the nice old
country couple came in, followed by a huge matron with a little son;
and a pretty young girl took the seat next to me. An old dame, who,
in spite of the heat, was muffled into a living mummy, mounted
beside the Boy on the box. The country women were packed into a
hooded cart that was waiting to receive the overflow, the driver got
up in front, and we were ready to start. It was already half an hour
after starting-time, but we delayed until a nice little boy,
attended by two juvenile shop-lads clad in overalls of check cotton,
appeared to join us. As fitting preparation for his four-hour
journey in the stuffy interior of the coach, careful relatives had
enveloped the urchin in a heavy top-coat and wound a thick muffler
round his neck. He was hauled into the coach, his luggage, which
consisted of two large round bundles neatly tied in gaily striped
handkerchiefs, went to swell the mound on the top, and off we set at
last, only to halt at the bottom of the street to admit a woman of
such appalling dimensions that she seemed to prove what the Boy
declares is the Majorcan rule with regard to diligences--that they
first fill them quite full, and then add a couple of the fattest
people procurable.
Clambering ponderously in she subsided with a flop between the other
massive matron and the pretty girl. "Caramba!" exclaimed the pretty
girl, and the journey began in earnest.
Palma was brilliant in sunshine. Looking back as we crawled up the
heights towards the Terreno, it glowed like a jewel in the strong
sunlight. The sea was a vivid azure. Beyond the opposite shores of
the bay the distant isle of Cabrera showed distinctly.
As the road wound onwards in and out, we got glimpses of fairy-like
inlets of the sea, of beautiful caves and tiny bays all sparkling in
the sunshine. As we passed the hotel at Cas Catala a German waiter
appeared to get the newspaper from our driver, and we felt glad that
our journey ended in a place where German waiters were unknown.
Turning from the sea, the road passed among rocky slopes crowned
with pines and olives. Amid the stones we caught sight of rosy heath
and of great clumps of lavender rich in purple blossom. It was on
this beautiful sloping country-side that the first great battle was
fought between the troops of King Jaime and the hosts of the Moorish
Amir. The fighting was severe; and, though the victory was his, the
chroniclers of the period tell how the brave young King of Aragon
wept when he learned of the loss of two nobles, brothers, who had
been boon companions of his own. A tapestry in one of the chambers
of the Casa Consistorial at Palma gives a pictorial rendering of the
scene. And under a large pine by the wayside, nearly half-way
between the capital and Andraitx, is a monument--a simple iron
cross set on a stone pedestal--commemorating the valour of the
Spaniards who lost their lives to help to free the Christians.
When the way was uphill, and the coach lumbered slowly along,
slumber crept over the passengers. When we again reached the level
and the pace quickened, everybody awoke, and conversation became
general; at least, as far as the native element was concerned. The
Man and I yearned for a knowledge of Majorcan when the two plump
ladies, whose tongues were their only active members, took turn
about in relating what were evidently incidents of dramatic
interest.
Once or twice, when the road ascended some specially steep slope in
zigzags, the coach stopped, and most of us got out and, crossing the
hill by a short cut--we followed those who knew the way--rejoined it
on the farther side. Needless to mention, the only two dames whose
absence would have made any appreciable lessening in the weight
remained fixtures.
The two points of difference between Majorcan and British travellers
that we had noticed on the drive from Soller again impressed us. One
was their quiet demeanour. They were not restless, they never
fidgeted. They sat quite still, their hands placidly folded--except
when a little gesticulation was necessary to adorn a tale. The
second, which was even more unlike the British of the same class,
was that though the journey was one of about four hours' duration
they had made no provision for it. Even the small boy, or the little
child, had not so much as a sweet or a biscuit to break the
monotony.
When, half-way, we stopped to change horses, the old man, who had
been pleasantly interested in the feminine gossip, stepped lightly
out, and returning with a large tin mug of water, handed it round.
It was the pretty girl who, when it came to her turn to drink,
gracefully declined the privilege in favour of me, saying, with a
wave of her hand, "Ah, no! The senora first."
The way was wild and romantic. Only at long intervals was there a
house even by the road-side. Just at dusk we passed several open
carts crowded with young olive-gatherers returning from work--a gay
band, shouting and singing. After that the night appeared to fall
suddenly upon the earth, and the new moon, a bright star poised
above her, shone in the sky.
A second diligence, starting from some other point, had joined us;
and as we moved slowly along in company, the two lumbering
heavily-laden coaches and the covered van, the little procession had
something of the aspect of a party of emigrants travelling in quest
of a new home.
When the mysterious beauty of the half-lights had vanished, and the
night gathered, we began to wonder why we had left the Casa
Tranquila, where we had been so comfortable. We had no special
reason for coming to Andraitx; there was no attraction to draw us
thither. And even now we did not know if there was any place where
we might sleep.
Just before we entered the town the coach stopped a moment and the
Boy came round to the door.
"I've been consulting the driver," he said. "He recommends a place
where he says we'll get the best cooking in Andraitx."
"Is it an inn?" we asked.
"No, I don't think it's exactly an _inn_, but the man has been a
cook. His house is at this end of the town. The driver says he'll
stop there if we like. Will that do?"
It was quite dark now. We were cramped and tired, and the refuge
that wasn't exactly an inn was at least near. We agreed that it
would do.
Three minutes later the diligence drew up in front of an open door,
through which the light from a good oil lamp streamed into the
blackness of the street.
"This seems to be the place," said the Boy. "But it's a shop!"
There was no opportunity for hesitation. Our luggage was already on
the pavement. Turning to a tall, bearded man in a white apron who
appeared in the doorway, we asked if he had accommodation.
Yes, he had room, he replied; would we enter?--and, following him,
we found ourselves in a wide, airy shop. On one side were shelves
filled with delicacies. On the other were three great wine barrels.
And on the floor stood the usual assortment of hampers and open
baskets containing fruits and vegetables.
At the back of the shop, sandwiched between it and the kitchen, was
a neat little dining-room. And when we had been ushered in there the
Boy, as our spokesman, proceeded, after the custom of the country,
to ask terms--"What would be the charge for board and lodging, wine
included, a day?"
Our host hesitated. He was an exceptionally nice-looking man and
spoke beautiful Spanish.
"The terms? That would depend upon what one had. He could make any
terms that suited, from one peseta and a half a day. But for four
pesetas--_then_ he could do us really well."
A bargain was quickly struck. We were to pay three pesetas and a
half a day, wine and the little breakfast included; and our first
meal was to be served as soon as it could be prepared.
After a short stroll through the dark streets, and not a little
conjecture concerning immediate happenings, we returned to our
lodging. The glass doors of the little dining-room opened on to the
shop, its window looked to the kitchen, where our host was already
busy over the stove. The sound of quick footsteps overhead suggested
that rooms were being prepared for our reception. Her parents being
engaged, the shop had been left in charge of the daughter of the
house, a pretty, dark-eyed child of seven years old.
She made a charming little picture, as she sat amongst the scarlet
_pimientos_ and the yellow lemons waiting for custom. And when a
younger child, carrying a quart bottle, entered to buy a pennyworth
of wine, the business-like way in which she placed the funnel in the
bottle, and filling the measure from the barrel poured it in without
spilling a drop, delighted us. As also did the accustomed way in
which she dropped the penny into the table-drawer that served as
till.
Before we had time to grow impatient our hostess, looking like an
adult copy of her child, appearing, spread the table neatly with
clean linen and shining crystal, then set before us a dish of rolls,
one of olives, and small plates of spiced sausage and ham. Then the
host entered carrying a bottle of a good brand of imported claret
that he had taken from his shelves, and a syphon of seltzer.
We were nibbling at the appetizers, trying to restrain ourselves
from making a meal of them, when an excellent soup was served.
"If I could choose, I know what I'd have next--a big fat omelet,"
the Boy said, as he finished his plate of soup. And on the thought,
as though in answer to his wish, the landlord entered bearing a fine
opulent omelet stuffed with green peas. When we had eaten that, he
was waiting to replace it with a dish of delicately browned veal
cutlets, savoury potatoes fried in butter, and more green peas. A
sweet course is so rarely served in Majorca that it was a pleasant
surprise to find the cutlets followed by a mould of the native
preserve, _membrillo_ (quince) jelly, and pastry turn-overs. The
dessert consisted of a pyramid of mandarin oranges cut with stems
and leaves. It was a surprisingly complete meal to be served on an
hour's notice in the back s
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